Poured the fellow some dew and dried up droplets of gaiety,
The last black mare had left into a field of lemon trees.
All left was letting laughter graze on his back,
Lilacs spring from ears.
He said: “They’ve grown numb out there
But in here there is nothing to fear,
‘Cause we’ve got solace.”
Let’s drink up sunlight.
Plow the fields of dejection
And enter human perfection,