The days of our future stand in front of us
Like a row of little lit candles
Golden, warm, and lively little candles.
The days past remain behind us,
A mournful line of extinguished candles;
The ones nearest are still smoking,
Cold candles, melted, and bent.
I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me,
And it saddens me to recall their first light.
I look ahead at my lit candles.
I do not want to turn back, lest I see and shudder
At how fast the dark line lengthens,
At how fast the extinguished candles multiply.