By SOPHIA KANG
(Lara Graves / Daily Trojan)
Shall I be dearly missed upon my leave?
As dry air carries the cries and the moans
Through desert, with no mothers left to grieve,
The wooden box becomes my sorry throne;
I cannot seem to picture what proceeds
A hollow chest without my beating heart,
The image for which God shan’t plant the seed —
A simple glimpse is greedy on my part —
Perhaps mortals were not meant to behold
The grandeur of the flowing River Styx,
Perhaps I should accept what I’ve been sold
An endless nothing of immortal tricks.
The dark approaches sooner than I hope
But with this danger, I must simply cope.




