"Yet I miss her old imperial line"
The words that fall in old, iambic ways
The grapes which spring from a poetic vine
Have lost the war, and are content to stay
I wish that nothing more would come of this,
And concrete choices soon would fade away
But as the mère and baby softly kiss,
This burn reveals more surely, day by day
As I, the lonely traveler passing by
A solid wood that leads to no known place,
I am alone- and then I start to cry
Through my tears I see her boldened face.
The woman plants a small and mindless seed
Her person speaks, courageous, through her deed.