Our life is short, our art in vain, both they
Shall be one day with Ur, and buried clay.
Othello proud, now in decay, lays bare
Man's vanity, the Earth's protecting care;
With prostrate Salamis, they witness bear
Of trials and Time's crushing force and wear,
Where mopish owls hunt with defiant air,
And spiders weave their webs, in ruins there.
Some soon, some late, regardless of emotion
Inherit thus we must Earth's fatal potion.
Events like these are specks on Time's vast course,
Still, waves will break on reefs with ceaseless force;
For buds are cut, their fragrance still unknown,
And figs are picked when ripe, and fully grown;
When sounds Fate's final clarion-note of call,
The actors cease to play their destined role;
Some cheered, some grieved, at this prepost'rous play,
The crowd deceived retire; thus ends the day.
The Rhythm of the Seasons A Booklet of Poetry by Boghos P. Jelebjian
Printed by the Guebenlian Press, Nicosia
1941