Cry of Sisyphus

I thought I could make it.
I really thought I could make it.
If I am to regather the pieces
of my bone, flesh, and blood
and climb this mountain once more
surely Earth would take pity upon me
and pave me a road to rest in Her arms.
Those with foolish almighty arrogance,
heavily drunk in the divinity of nectar,
shall spare the likes of me
from such torture
that laughs at the mention of eternity.
What knowledge have they of death?
What understanding have they other than
observing the mere decay of worms under their feet,
writhing in desperation for life,
the very hearth one struggles to quench
while some selected by sheer luck
toss it around from hand to hand.
To slit our hearts out
and lay them bare upon the altar
for those figures of little worth
is meaningless,
as if hope had never crawled out of
the box of young Pandora.
Days, months, years,
even centuries have lost their importance
and succumbed to what one labels eternity.
And, one day,
when the rock rolled down the mountain
as if to sneer my strains of strenuous labour,
I cried my soul out
and tore my eyes,
a final resort
of a man with nothing to lose:
I am the rock.
Here,
I stand.
The rock stands.
It stands before you.
It shall kneel by your wish.
It pleads for your heavenly mercy
to drag this pitiful soul
to the endless depths of hell.
I shall kiss the feet of the Charon,
offer my neck to the three-headed monster,
and swim through the rivers of Styx.
So speak.
I demand that you speak.
Speak,
you swine!
Oh,
but no one speaks.
An eagle above my sweat-dried head
screeches words that haunt me
in my sleepless mind.
One who once feared death
shall beg for it
by the words of one
who seemingly knows not of death.