Every time a poem is written, a jargon is roared out.
On the relentless rocks of destiny
that shiver every now and then,
that bow before the chasing time;
A cynic dares to step today,
to free his bottled up voices.
With eyes at the skies, deeply he breathes
and roars out the jargon of the cynics
which all conceive, yet a few perceive,
and feel; the ones destined to.
It seems that he writes a crestfallen verse
that finds out its way through the crowds.