The happiest of clowns are
colorful like you, seducing
the jar and the crescent-shaped
labium in the bar. Average citizens
are turning down
the dojo of dawn.
Taking it upon themselves
like hammering thralls
in the dark, like chieftains.
But triumph is mute
from day to day before
renewed.
Only in the higher ground
could I draw a humming sound,
my gift to you