Soothsayer

A poem

If you find me in the place Where soothsayers toil And tell me which futures Will be ours I’ll say it is me who Coils up alone, Confiscated from sorrow. It is a pity that when Ardor finds me, I disintegrate And must be enraptured To return to a State. Your Undertaking is to restrain My sorcery for Truth — Poverty of triumph over a Spirit of ineptitude Disguised as malfeasance. I am a peasant Trying to take hold of riches That my soul only imagined Henceforth exposed and arranged without adornment.