Limited by imagination rather than experience,
Experiencing life only within your limits,
Pleasure a thing you do not think you deserve,
Deserving nothing but to please everyone…
On and on you tread the shores of life,
With your broken oars at hand,
Wanting nothing but your deserved pence,
Getting nothing on any merits,
Life is nothing like the thoughts you reserve,
In your sanctuary away from everyone…
Pummel on, though for with strife it is rife
Life, may at last deal you a good hand
When wars and ruined men shall cease
To vex your idealized world of peace,
And broken children shall no longer lie
Limp like your dreams, waiting to die
I will let you lie peacefully in bed
To nurse a whole and sacred
Grief, but now, oh dear Ciru, pummel on you must
For we cannot know just
When victory like the last embers of hope
Will warm our hearts, and we will pop
Like your sixth toe off the norm
Into sweet remission, oh the form
