As seen at: El Sitio de la Melancolía

Melancholia (unfinished)

Time waits for none, and none has time for aught.
         A drear cortège of days the seasons fly,
         And why do we live these deadly lives?

But husks of being, in search of we know not what.
         In sensual pleasures indulge the flesh's whim -
         Interim satisfaction, though the yearning soul recoils.

Copyright © 1986 by Jonathan H N Chin