As soda hisses and seethes from vinegar,
Rhymes and senses tore from the soul.
Now the crater is empty, not a bit of growth,
Where are those former verses?

One has to dig mines,
Clay, ore and basalt,
Without crowbar, pick and shovel.
Inspiration has gone out, alas.

One could forget about it,
Return to vanity,
But, instead of the poison of weekdays,
It pulls toward a “lower” goal!