The Songstone

Where is Neruda now to sing of you,  Comrade Vallejo? His would be an apt  voice to ennoble, know your fire, as few others could (I am not one, wrapped in cotton wool of Art for its own sake, without the balls to brave the Fascist cannons as you have done). They'll kill you, Comrade, make an icon of resistance, buy you - Mammon's clutches of billionaires: the stooge Piñera! (a parasite from this, or any, era), sucking the weal, and old spiders who brood  voraciously. The darkness of a day elapsed, a day nourished with our sad blood, concludes the desperate struggle of decay.

Returning every day from court, I pawn spring clothes. The river sees my drunken mien; my boozing debts mount up all over town. Men do not often live three score and ten. The butterflies go deep into the flowers, the dragonflies on wing among the drops. The passing time is always rushing hours; no time to know you: separation stops. 朝回日日典春衣 每日江頭盡醉歸 酒債尋常行處有 人生七十古來稀 穿花蛺蝶深深見 點水蜻蜓款款飛 傳語風光共流轉 暫時相賞莫相違