We seek to solve the problem of ourselves
And grasp the hidden meaning of our lives.
But too oft we are thwarted in our goal
By every obstacle upon life's road
Alas the tragedy! Alas the search!
That fruitless is, addicted so to birth.
Death seems to be a tiny price to pay
To shiver thru another frigid day.
The ego merely is a thought of fear,
A thing of nothingness, yet held so dear.
Our soul, a distant lighthouse in the dark,
Guiding the journey on which we've embarked.
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