Your eyes begin to drip like bathroom taps
And then you you find what's bound to make you weepier.
More photos, but this time they're ancient snaps,
Some coloured, most in black and white, some sepia -
Your uncles, aunts, grandparents, ancient chaps
And biddies you half know and - this is creepier -
Some you don't know, but all of them resemble
In some way, you. Now you begin to tremble.

Likeness betokens kinship, you assume;
You feel intensely - once these were like you.
Their pictures show them more or less in bloom -
Where are they now? It's certain, very few
Have any earthly home now but the tomb,
For dying is the thing all humans do.
And though they once had life, and drive, and brains,
Now, of their whole existence, what remains?

These fading photographs, and nothing more.
Such is, you know, man's typical condition,
And woman's too. What else has life in store,
Except the crushing end of all ambition?
Our bodies rarely make it past fourscore,
And all our works are marked for demolition.
Whatever humans build, Time comes and wrecks it.
You leave the book, and drift towards the exit.

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