Beauty, she is not,
Of the immortality of God,
And the inevitable impermanence
Of all that is borne of Him;
The flower fades,
The fruit ferments of the vine,
Humanity flares up like a firework,
And, falling, sets the forest afire from afar.
The fall is not art,
But rather, the art in the fall
Can be found at the very instant
That the flaring, fading, not-yet-falling firework
Reaches its zenith,
And, cresting upon the shore of its dreams,
Can rise no more.