I am followed by a grave,
at birth its depth was dug,
it staggers, stumbles, deaf and blind,
it craves my final hug.
And every hour I flee from it,
my arms stretched out in fear,
my hair blown back by rushing wind,
I crave its final sneer.
But running is what legs are for,
not lying while alive,
and that is why I cannot stop
but always onward strive.
One day quite soon my time will come,
my grave will ready be,
and that is when I will lie down
for all eternity.
Until that day I'll toss and turn,
in vain will loop-holes seek,
but just as sure as others failed,
at last my grave will speak.