Your kingship is good for the people. The people spend their days in abundance thanks to you.
I’d like to find and lose the philosopher’s stone. Make love and never lose control. Remove a great number of living beings with impunity. Afterward resuscitate a very small number of the dead.
Sad poems from a strange artist
Old poor poverty, fried rice with pickled sesame seeds
In this city of the generous, all are chivalrous
I would, to immerse my consciousness into your serenity
Must toiling Man for ever meet disgrace, and eat his hard earn’d bread with heated face, and all his acts in dull Oblivion lay
Without doubt you can call him John Testicle, who sets himself to criticizing someone else who could be his master for a hundred years.
And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs — Every child may joy to hear.
And I who am changed through her, as the winged magician wishes, do not see or ask anything but virtue and beauty, whence I could perhaps discern your whole soul.
I travelled through a land of men, A land of men and women too, And heard and saw such dreadful things, As cold earth wanderers never knew.
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
More than annoyed, sad. More than sad, unhappy. More than unhappy, suffering.