After the poem has cooled,
The poet sees he’s been fooled.
The passion which filled the nose,
The taking off of the clothes,
The utterances profound,
Litter the cold ground.
The poem-making was hot with desire,
But the poem itself has no fire.
It was the night in the poet’s mind
With the fervent dreams,
But day discovers the poet, blind,
Looking at his poem. Now what seems
To be inspiration is only a poem that was made
In the light, but fell into a shade.