The bright sun has relaxed me so
and chased away my poetry;
the mesmerizing music of my verse implores
when it’s dark and I’m trapped indoors.
Anxiety is my muse.
Alarm and black ink tremble before the tragic news
and all the vibrating songs are spent
in the most earnest and hopeless sentiment
and nothing else is possible.
When I am glad I have no will.
Not even a comedy is possible.
I cannot laugh.
The sun! the sun! the sun!
Is my philosophy and bath.