I Am

Birth being spit out into a world of death,
Beginning only the start of the count:
The count, which ends at the bang,
And what follows is bound to come to close.

Clothes are chosen with worry and with haste,
Each man must wear what fits his waste.
A coating of his outsides, a second tie
Is behind necessary for each man to hide.

And let a woman not make the mistake
Of calling into question that which she can not forsake:
You, too, are born in uniform
Only wedded harshly that to which from you as torn.

The only thing to keep me up at nights
Is a hint of spirits.

I am come from beneath
To show you the sky above,
I am come from below
To bring you that which is beyond.

Eating miserably in your tiny skin of flesh
I find you, larve, suckling fresh.
For you I have a cure, the remedy of time,
As you, with your own gold, begin to dine.