The peony hath wilted      Beneath the golden sun      Like all the halls with silver walls      Man will tarnish and be done      The blade of grass still growing      Beneath the empty sky      Like every place where god is graced      Man still weakens and will die      And everybody knows this      Or professes least as much      But, oh how can we understand      Lest death chooses us to touch?      And many men enlightened      claim knowledge of whats next      say how can one: "Thy will be done"      And be higher than the rest?      I do not desire to make fools out of tools      But darkness clouds the minds of crowds      and tells them what to do      Always they're proclaiming "'tis the light, I've seen the light"      But blinding views and constricting rules must make men want to die      At least they'll go to heaven      Their souls their god's to claim      I'll land in hell, with satan dwell      But it's truly all the same      The sinning will continue      along with all the saves      This life a trap, a tryst      One which all souls must brave