All those lanes of poverty
Are a revelation from another land;
The seas dismount the wild crust,
Unleashing hurting particles of water.
The star above our masters is brighter
Than the brightest light in close communion.
This starry sky of beaming fortunes corrects
The soul when it gazes at the realm of wishes.
I have achieved much in my divine hours,
And relentless speeches have issued forth,
But the remedies of my headaches are good
Like the rains of a selfish winter or snowy night.
Some were false poor actors,
Laying on the lane of freedom;
Others betrayed the stage,
Forcing some to neglect the acts.
A long life awaits my doctor of postures,
He arms his house with weapons of ice,
Cold as the syringes that fire and plea,
Like soldiers who mutter their praises to generals.
Everybody knows I am growing old,
But the faster I carry on forgiving
The more is the beauty of my parents,
For the old ages are supremely entwined.
To see paper shredded is to doubt the sphere
And the domain of my laughter in this prison.
The cells are like the neighbourhood of worry,
A tanned man will argue with the women of his.
The numbers of this race are elongated
To see the circles in the sand of our foe.
One tooth bargains for the entering feud,
It needs to be chopped off by the chief.
The city is a work of art,
That feared heaven and hell;
From the sand-holes to tunnels
Of the furious creatures of certainty.
I number my creations as a financial man,
Of the great pleasure-boats I have curtains;
They fold and retract to believe in their height,
Once the worshippers are elated by the call.