Ignore the dreams,
they are confusion:
the devils’ chorus,
urging change.
Stray but from
the path, dear boy,
and all will fall,
will fall, will fall.
Limbs of a thousand
trees groan down,
thunder on your shoulders.
Feet sunk deep in sucking mud.
You pawn,
you errand-boy. You serve a lazy master
whose will is an anvil on your spine,
whose face is made of paper.