Station and Death

Life

August 2025

I am but a man. What am I to do? 

I am but a man, an ant among empire, a cog among machine. What am I to do? Shall I labor for the queen or churn numbers for the machine? To where does my voice go when I share my say? For whom will I have lived my years when my beard is grey?  

“To the desert. For the aristocrat.”  
The voice calls back.  
“Your wager in life is small, yet you must bear it all —  
For king and country, for lucre you will crawl.  
Rest ye, weary head, wrought with thoughts. 
Rest ye, weary body, laden with the work I’ve bought. 
You are but a man. What else are you to do?” 

I am but a man, whose wager in life is small. What am I to do? A man’s mind has zeal, yet his hands do toil. What better ways could he spend his time before returning to the soil? His zeal demands a mark on the world made deep. His toil begs a cavalcade which weeps. When his time calls, what is he to do with a lot so small? 

I am but a man, a father, a friend. What am I to do? Planting shade which I will never feel, but for those helped it will be real. An indelible mark left for the future to hold. On mortar, on minds, the mark sparks alight souls in a world otherwise cold. 

I am but a man, standing on the bank of the Styx. What have I done? Will I look ahead placid, knowing I left no stone unturned? Will I look back at ashes, the time I’ve burned? The steady mind looks to not toil in vain, but to employ the mundane to forge his world unashamed.  

I am but a man. How did I arrive at the Styx? What have I done? How can man die better than according to his station? May I live another twenty years, or eighty, I will die by my obligation. The way I choose to burn my years, illustrates to Death how to end my vocation. May I rest easy at the end of a life I’ve fathered my sons and peers? Or shall I die with zeal stricken by spear? Do I burn my years serving you, O voice which beckons me? Or do I live by my toil, forging the life I know to be. 

I am but a man. What will I do?