Ripples

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.