Social condition, indisposed; his milieu was blood immune, prodigious power, who would dare oppose but thru writings, he opted to subdue
Ideas are met, art is set it knows no denouement, he wrote best, what he loves best; weapons beneath its content
From distant space, a world you live His time has passed, your world anew, And his blades of art swings inexhaustibly embraced by chosen few, including you
Unfolded eyes - you engage to a journey he portrayed, The chef-d'oeuvre of the mystic Nothing more than a reflection of your world, for all manner of mimetic, SICK!
To discourse with you, he strived An honest expression of sentiment intended Realization in lento by synoptical issues No reason, for you, not to be excited
His expositions welcome you, malevolent then seek to convince by an argument Them nameless existed by descriptions Blended it well with narrations.
Visions seem clear, for you adhere Becoming the progeny, catalyst of him you write best, what you love best; weapons beneath its content
His theme that which was right; depravity of our race, malign, And no conclusion for an unneeded fight Another belligerence hit from a false lead
People are to waste the ruby fluid of life.
'Literature is like leaves on a tree; once the leaf drifts off the branch, it no longer belongs to the tree, and once a work is written, it leaves the author and becomes the property of the reader' Octavio Paz