At times senses are so free and lucid
And paths of comprehension so facile
That every hope is deeply etched and fervid
And my imagination is fertile.
And I am lucid, fervid all the while;
Profusion of my ditties is so rapid;
So innocent and so devoid of guile,
So keen and sharp, sincere and so avid.
That flow of light is always straight and rabid
But mostly senses poor and puerile
Are lifeless, dark, lost, groping vapid
And the very act of thinking is senile.
I always wait with animation till,
The lucidity appears at its will.
(The lightning comes to run this grinding will.)
