Filled with pages and pages of an imbecile’s cry
Of “Wha, Wha, Wha, What?…Ahhh!!!
Sound-words like
A mad river
Churning the blood inside the voice
That stubbornly endures this life
The Sound and Fury
Of an idiot
Babbling syllables inside me,
Suddenly speaking
And saying nothing.
Handing my heart this transcription
Taken from its conversation
With the darkness
Which does not hear it
Handing me the script of this life
Without my soliciting it.
Handing my heart this transcription
Taken from its conversation
With the darkness
Which does not hear it
Handing me the script of this life
Without my soliciting it.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing
No comments:
Post a Comment