The poetic awakening — its uncanny and pulchritude
Create shudder and bother to an allusion of fiasco,
Or even worse, décès! Like anticipating for the ending
That even the Sun herself go awry of her plan,
And leaves the people to be leadenly blind in the traces of undone.
The cynic morning and the absurd mind
Though sensational, is a timed-bomb to a shattered person,
And only it helps to seal the cracks or gather its pieces
Laid squelched on surface air and soil,
But never to heal even if for endless the cycle go in toil.
However, to wait such to happen is to waste,
Get up! Plough the dirt and make haste,
Look! The maidens on their happiness donning their silks
With their baskets in hand, picking lilies-of-the-valley
And so their hearts in bliss that colored their amphorae.
Now cut fresh-like morning it is, more and more will come,
And like a day to be used in hard work,
just another diamond day I say!
Hurried seagull I am to plummet myself into this world
The way Cassini into Saturn she hurled.
