Burning down the summer sun
Comes boreing through the flesh of men
As beads of sweat, a bitter salt
Go sliding, dripping, sowing fields we till.
Muscles taut the beasts of burden
Raising high the iron tool, make cry:
“All flesh is grass
And its beauty is like the flower of the field.”

The conception of sophistry - an infancy of grey,
Rabid foam of previous passion dripping down and settling.

All around is pacifying, soothing and warming
The milk of contentment to trick our churning stomachs.

Flickering of black and white detracting from the
Dying tinder of sparks of rage and so much thirst for life.