So I Be Written In The Book

We Are In Truth But Pieces On This Chess Board Of Life, Which In The End We Leave, Only To Drop One By One Into The Grave Of Nothingness.

Dead Yesterdays And Unborn Tomorrows, Why Fret About It, If Today Be Sweet.

How Much More Of The Mosque, Of Prayer And Fasting? Better Go Drunk And Begging Round The Taverns. Khayyam, Drink Wine, For Soon This Clay Of Yours Will Make A Cup, Bowl, One Day A Jar. When Once You Hear The Roses Are In Bloom, Then Is The Time, My Love, To Pour The Wine; Houris And Palaces And Heaven And Hell- These Are But Fairy-tales, Forget Them All.

In Monasteries, Seminaries, Retreats And Synagogues, They Fear Hell And Seek Paradise. Those Who Know The Mysteries Of God Never Let That Seed Be Planted In Their Souls.

This Clay, So Strong Of Heart, Of Sense So Fine,surely Such Clay Is More Than Half Divine--'tis Only Fools Speak Evil Of The Clay,the Very Stars Are Made Of Clay Like Mine.