Unless it rolls noticeably downhill, we give a tribute to heaven's
Guardian, and for all fake outcomes we just blame ourselves, unlucky and unwise
As if we, come up to the near borders of our fortune, must cover our awful acts with sen-sen
And be figured, nevertheless, 'losers', hanging our incapacities like statue-medallions around our public neck.
What can be believed of us -- humans sweet as a lollipop by connivance of our own vanity
But wretched and raw by bare night light -- except that when we walk, we wobble