From the spear of Shakespeare,
Unraveling discomforts in the air,
Deep, sober, beauty's peak !
Yet, the bone's feeble, tired - a screech;
Traveling through the sun's intensive heat,
An unsettling smell of rotten meat,
The Vegetables, now giving way to the harmattan,
Yes, the very reward for the pride of man:

Beautiful !
Happy !
Weak !
Sad;

The dagger of fate lurks within,
To send to sleep - slaves and kings