Celebrations

 Oh, behold, my dear lament,

as if someone calls to you—

I believe I hear at last

a voice of joyful hue.

The withering has been bound,

the season has arrived

when nature sheds its light,

and sorrows have derived.

But was a solution given to all

in the blink of an eye?

With labor, the stomach lays

such nourishment awry.

Let us make a retreat,

if only for a while,

and build within my eyes

a new perspective's style.

But when I gaze ahead with care,

I see a pitiable breed,

endlessly shallow, stripped of worth,

and driven by sickly need.

Once more they've grasped at life,

lifeless and crippled, low—

yet celebrations echo,

a hollow, endless show.