Classic Poem

Weak, weepy, pigeon-breasted,
forsaken,
dumpy, sniveling, shallow friend —
thorns!
whiny throat of the cat
in winter.

This is not the gauge of our future
far away.
The angels have cursed the earth,
cursed it deep.
Two there are who afflict the Lord —
the bastards.

I see bright colored pictures,
child!
ripened apples, bursting pomegranates
red!
But how can new golden waves
come?

So great as this the angels'
scorn?
this carelessness and this compulsion
mingled?

— We shall not come, — they said —
for why would they
be caught again down here?
How should the beautiful fall
down among the ugly crowd?