What of this word: a protocol
From which we must not deviate
Lest made aligned against our soul—
A luminous immoral state.

Or, rather, what of holy laws—
To which the snake still owes its chest
The people all their earthly flaws—
When stars against black holes are pressed.

Please tell, can love become futile
Where faltered steps, routine they turn?
Like this, these thoughts, we tread, defile
O God, O man, O dying sun.

Alas! To burn— A lust of old
As breezing is for nature’s fire;
And yet, no miracles unfold
If live our wont, to death desire.