My yesterday was dream. My morrow, dirt!
A while past, nothing; a while later, smoke.
All pitiful ambition I exert
to strike at what destroys me with one stroke.
I, skirmish of the war I cannot win,
am the true weakness of my strategy.
As I let my own cannons do me in,
the body does not bear but buries me.
Yesterday's out, tomorrow yet unplayed.
Today runs by and is and was and flings
me headfirst into d**h without delay.
The moment and the hour are each a spade
salaried by my fears and sufferings
to dig my monument in living clay.