They are fresh-faced, not innocent, but perhaps not yet jaded, oblivious to time and death, of each counted breath in the pendulumβs sway falling unheeded.
They are bright, undissuaded by foreign tongues, by sepulchers empty and waiting, by sarcophagi of ancient kings, by proclamations, by rituals of scalpels and rings.
They are sworn, they are fated to misadventure and grief; but they revel in life till the sun falls, receding into silent halls to torrents of inconsequential tears . . .
. . . to brief tragedies of tears when they consider this: No one else sees. But I know. We all know. We all know the consequence of being so young.