On the stage of strife, ablaze and stark,
Bereft of toil, lies an empty park.
Four million days as silent doves,
A strike in the heart, the worker starves.

Athletes preen, in glories glow,
Inflamed by secrets only they know.
With pulses of light, and cold's embrace,
They seek to quicken their weary race.

In jester's folly, realtors tread,
In affairs of heart, their honor bled.
"What could go wrong?" the snail does sigh,
As secrets fester 'neath twinkling sky.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur