LOST

Of suffering, there is no end
But something even dearer than life
The darkness holds and mist enshrouds
And we are proved luckless lovers
Of this something, shimmering, somewhere beneath the ground


And no man can say, 
And no man has seen 
just what it is, or what it might be
Instead we drift, on idle stories borne.

Euripides, Hippolytus