Half-naked with bare feet, he steps timidly upon this mud,
It is bound to sink beneath him, and
Ooze between his toes. He knows.
He knows this river's mud to stink--
To permeate a moonlit night, as this,
And crumple up his nose. He knows.
The stench of this mud engulfs him, continues to
Curdle, and brings a grimace to his face.
(...While somewhere starry-eyed dreamers roam about in
Some garden fragrance pitching woo at roses)
He looks out into the murky, rippling river
Through a moonbeam and is sobered out his current lot.
It begins to drizzle as swollen clouds
Usher in the grayest of all dawns with a
Passionless chill around and through him.
(...As cheerless children on a winter Merry-Go-Round)
Abruptly, overhead, a solitary, desperate blackbird,
As black as coal itself, thrusts away hurriedly
From a lifeless limb toward a destiny; and he knows, too,
Somehow, so should he.