Laugh at me, little child,
At my bowed head
At the gathering of merry,
At my cracked lips devoid
Of words that drip like honey
But only leak sour drops of truth.
Laugh at my grotesque costume
Of scars and wrinkles,
The flakes of snow that
Cover the paths on my scalp,
Laugh at my joints that lack grease
And these stubborn feetat war with the soil.
At the corridors of my eyes
Made black from the fumes of life's furnace,
And the deep gallows from which
They peer at the world.
Laugh at my rigid soul
Unmoved by beauty and melody,
And my frozen tongue
Betrayed by the luxurious taste of food,
Laugh at the wooden pillar
That supports my failing framework,
And the rags that are to me silk.
Laugh all that you can,
For the green leaf that mocks the withering yellow
Must have forgotten the earth still revolves.