Silence's Slave (poem)

A man without a precious gift
Does not deserve his air:
The mind whose contents cannot shift
Should stop, sit and beware:

Though gods are lacking in their truth,
No purpose is a curse.
A man still in his blissful youth
Must still the earth traverse.

A year's silence, time spent in wait
Is broken with brief haste:
A lifetime of flame and hate
Is nothing but a waste.

To dwell on failure is the end --
But self-belief reborn
Can raise a corpse; give life and men:
No longer must we mourn.

A dead man's vigour would surpass
All in their pure desire,
For the living have dreams of glass
Which melts on meeting fire.

Don't tread on those who did not you:
Religion cannot save
A soul, let alone those who do:
Do not remain its slave.