what coming clown is this
that plays upon a stage
his part so old and bold
his wars so gone and waged

his body screwed with pieces, broke
of empty flower glasses, blooms
the rose of hearts that long have passed
to mooting rackets of disuse

limbs his legs so broken, torn apart
that with the stencil colors plays
his pains his ills a forth and coming day
just scattered fragments of dismay
that lightly do revert upon the oldest clay

and all the game that goes on by
to his amusing grey eyes sparks
as if the sound of lute or base
were just the flickering gurglus to his heart

another mounted mantelpiece of chards
reversed and let upon the center stage
to whirl and twirl until the dinting light
would make the crowd and fool in same old darkness pace

[still thinking in english...]