Thus Is the Doom of Men

It is the doom of men that they forget.
It is the doom of men that they regret.
It is the doom of men that they beget.
It is, for them, their nature’s grim epithet.

Inevitable upon the human scale,
Weighted against weights that always prevail.
Such is their ancient inheritance:
To live, to breathe,
To breathe and breed,
And then to die,
As they fail.

They must forget — for memory would paralyze.
They must regret — for striving is a self-made lie.
Ignorance becomes a sheltering fold,
A veil drawn over truths already told.

It is the doom of men that they forget.
A prophecy foretold, a prophecy fulfilled.
Such is the nature of men, distinctly distilled.

Written on the skin of every newborn,
The wrinkles mark beginning and the end.

Yet in the doom of men, a spark remains.
A quiet flame that flickers through their pains.
For though they fall, they rise and try again,
Defying all the fates that govern men.

It is the hope of men that they forget —
Not only wounds, but victories unmet.
It is the hope of men that they regret —
For regret becomes the seed of better yet.

And though the weights of life forever press,
They carve out moments of defiant tenderness.
A laugh, a vow, a hand held in the night —
Small rebellions against the dying light.

Such is the paradox they carry in their chest:
Doom written in their bones,
Hope written in their breath.

This is the doom of men that they beget.