Oh the soul of Man
Your art is blunt in microcosm
Even the nous infers not your path.

Whether on earth or skyward
Or yonder the brink of this nature
That the mind reels not.

Your image looms in myriad
Myriad of earthly creatures
A creature so reckoned and cunning.

The eye glimpses it not
To tell where it lies all night
Just as the ear espies no.

Certainly the body mulls too
Of the way you depart it
In a time unknown

Just a mile away,
The body lays torpid
Wimpish, clunking stiffly

Like an old forest log,
The vein goes quiescent
The blood forms a pool of water
Sluggish to migrate its way

Oh soul of nature,
An interval mode tincture in the eye
Deafened, yes, the ear embodies

And the bone soon tours mortal
Mortal! Mortal! Oh this shallow nature
Your art remains incertitude.

This fell play to man
Surely lies him in in kayoed world
If he tours your shallow world.