The fly does not move, it does not breathe;
One wing spread, the other torn,
Who deeply yearns for a crown never worn
As the blade, dulled by ages, slips on its sheath.
The scene is over, the act is ended,
And while the moment, sunlit into clay,
Is allowed to stretch on and on and play
This Carmen is vague and faint, rather scrawl;
Hearty guts or gutted heart? They are offended.
Fortunately, all is ebbed away apiece at curtain-fall.
Counting one’s treasure is the true.