Surcease' Promise They say we are given three score and ten; I ask For nothing more. There is no thing I know That lasts; to hold the center a daunting task. All joy is fleeting, all beauty but a show That fades beneath the waves of time and fate. I would not end my stay upon this shore But I am glad to know it shall abate And I shall cast aside this flesh I wore. For though I succor others when I can No haven greets me when the storm is mine, And were I given some unending plan I could not bear the weight of fate's bright line. Mortal I am, by birth and blood and fire, And that is well, for else of Wyrd I'd tire. copyright E Glas Durboraw, April 29, 2002 - Chattanooga