[cincopa AQJAHdKzY4-m]we cry out for the hand of mercy to slap our face,
lest we fall asleep when the master proffers grace:
there is no more urgent task than to stay awake,
and receive the beloved for pure beauty’s sake.
we are snoring with such ambition, we can’t find
the beloved naked before us- we are so blind!
or, the night passes slowly, as we toss in our sleep-
and we become ever so devoted to counting sheep!
we hate the light from the comfort of our posh cave-
the shadows are so seductive, we denounce the brave:
“truth is not beauty, and beauty does not exist”,
this is the modern slogan on which we all subsist.
the dawn’s rosy fingers found darvish nodding-
with a start he got up, and kept on plodding.