But I was weaving well-dressed dreams
At my laden heart's threshold
And the rays of which did shine
When her smile, the ever-blooming thorn
Clipped the wings of my thought, o
Ah-Word, pregnant of immortal meanings
Ripe fruit of man's psychic cultivation
Nourished by challenges virtual to
Society, culture weary of unchanging
from the thick darkness of Ideology
Shaped not by the beauteous chaos
Of the lunatic, lover, poet's minds-
Fathers of ever-lasting begetting
« return.