The world is but a dream
It seems to me that all the world is but a dream
of many man-made paper-sided fantasies,
upon which fools and mystics are wont oft’ to build
their futile, idealistic hopes and aspirations;
why cannot men perceive that paper catches fire -
that many die and much is wasted all in vain?
Why don’t they build on rock instead of paper myths?
And who will know their terror when the end is nigh?