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.

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