I, in my sorrow, bewail the fate
Of ripening fruits that fall to earth;
Yet one moves as spilled ink to a blotter,
Helpless, impaired because restrained.
What weakening game would look back
At its own revealing spoor and say Alas?
Need one for the present blame the past?
So in my agony, I take time to chant
My elegy, a mockery of hope,
Of men cringing behind their shadows...