The whole world is a theatre,
and also people are its actors,
but what a nuisance,
it is not fairly clear
who is its playwright,
it is the odd chance, though,
as sure as eggs is eggs. After all,
if not it, then who on earth else!
Its scenery is the nature.
Time is its make-up artist.
Maybe a great secret
is its stage-director.
Yet then there can be no doubt
in that God is alone
both its spectator
and its connoisseur.
Time after time the life
seems to us like a tragedy,
ups and downs compose
its simple and plain plot.
The shroud is as a fallen curtain.
Sometimes the sad end
resembles not a ridiculous farce
and the heroic death
looks like a star turn.
