Down under the seal of the inane,
There lies the sorrow of a frustrated hope -
The grief of a foiled becoming,
The anarchy of a useless feat.

Disorder is the result of intent,
Chaos is the outcome of diligence.

Yet, in the floating wreck one suffers
The painful march towards self-definition.
More difference amounts to more confusion.

The rocky shore graces the town with a wild horizon,
Tender to the eye and harmful to the feet.