IN ONE HUNDRED YEARS ALL IS FORGOTTEN

Tonight I’m adrift, conflicted, and in doubt,
I feel like a capsized boat,
and for all I suffer and moan about
I have found no antidote.
But why should I feel so rotten?
In one hundred years all is forgotten.

I sing songs and prance about in pride
and live my life as a beautiful novel.
Like a full-grown troll I eat at God’s side
and drink like the Devil’s apostle.
And why not live a life so misbegotten?
In one hundred years all is forgotten.

It is best to end this struggle without delay
and to the sea with my tormented soul I will head.
There the world will find me one day
by the bitterest of drownings dead.
But why come to an end so ill-gotten?
In one hundred years all is forgotten.

No, it is better to wander on and stay alive
and write a new book every year
and for the noblest lines continue to strive
until I die a writer of great revere.
If that’s all there is, where then do I begin:
In one hundred years all is forgotten.