Man is born only free and virtuous through,
But chains himself to vice, a bruise.
Below the heart for without license,
Like a double burning stick of incense.
Breathed and forgotten like a book.
So seldom this that took,
Freedom and chained the worm upon the hook.
For not without bite, in spite I sit and wait for walls that shake.
And the shallow still lake, with a riple,
Round and round it goes, beautifully simple.