Oh great day of joy
Bring some peace to this boy
Find the sacred morning sin
For a pleasant falling in
Like a curse of death
A false desert burns in bed
As screaming at a bold man
I feel the seed on my hand
As the night brings a cupid
That has no wings and grows stupid
A saviour on its role
Brakes the heart and turns in a hole
But always a violent fare
Can save the crack I got to bare
On with an invisible impulse
My glory morning becomes the pulse
.
Vasco Pompaelo*
