(Capitulation.)  

In the face of unfulfilled dreams,
I would rather sleep than carry on.
What courage is there in futility?
In hollow, devouring emptiness?
Better Oblivion than this despair.

Let the end come soon for us, God.
We have chosen our lots: we fall.
There is no more choice to be made,
No future to be cast in blazing mirth.
We would rather drown ourselves.

The clock strikes thirteen and chimes.
We dead rise up, our ghostly mantle
Shed at last for your caress, the kiss,
Which shears all doubts and wanting,
And at last we are darkling.