Cup of Unbecoming

O children born to gnaw at flesh and bone,
and tread a path where hope has never shone;
the first, best gift: to never rise,
the second: swift, unclouded demise.

Come hemlock, cup of merciless reprieve,
let numbness veil the eyes that strain to grieve;
let thought dissolve, let veins forget their song,
and loose the chains that fetter too long.
Remember Bruno, flame-enthroned,
whose tongue defied, whose body groaned;
the fire devoured, the crowd looked on,
yet truth endured when he was gone.

Such is the jest of gods and men –
to burn the wise, to praise, and then
to raise the gallows, pour the draught,
and mock the lips by anguish quaffed.
Till all is ended, breathless, blind, alone,
till birth and death are equal, dust to bone.