What you grew rich by will burst like a boil,
Like an awl from a sack, it will poke out.
The police will come to the brawlers,
Mercy will carry it out of the trouble.

Not at once the consequence, and not FOREVER —
Ripened, it will show its fruits,
Through NEW blessedness to a new affliction,
And from that affliction a path to blessedness will lie.

The chain of transformations they will call vanity,
The storehouses of treasure — fodder for rust.
For the generations to come we gather with you,
For the experience of humankind, for more perfect norms.