Obscure

In the long run does it really matter

What I chance to say?

In another moment my words will be about as important

As the effort that it took to say them,

In another year I will be forgotten by the highborn

Like a piece of drift wood along a sandy shore,

In ten years I will be forgotten by the lowborn

As every memory becomes obscure,

In twenty years I will be forgotten by the unborn

By a curious form of mind decay,

In fifty years I will be a beggar

With a beard as long as a summer day,

In eighty years I will be a statesman

In the nether realm on scanty pay,

And then, Oh then!

Then it really won’t matter what I say