The leaves of yesterday I pluck away
Too gladly, my fingers thinking on accord
With its master’s caprice:
A broken toy, pride, friendship
All mutable, volatile and frail.
What ecstatic liberation the process thrills!
What control, what sublimation those papers
Suffer from the delirious push button ripping
These automaton hands executing my command
But mere defense mechanism, it is
But treachery. Like paper that I subdue
To bring December,
The sands are not induced
To bring me January.