Sleep a month longer, Jin-dynastied sun;
Too eager you rise to sign Unfounding’s breath.
Carcass-gifted comes greeting but calamitous cause remains unspoken?
Enlighten then your parapeted subjects,
Sixty-thousand they stand, shawled in suicide’s white:
Where erred veneration, when fell estival’d celebration?
The horse’d horde at our gates know not love, never will:
Their language lacks the word.
At those barbarous hands are we to be skull-split,
Rent from family and form, rent for silver and sex?
False prophet! It cannot be! And so:
Your claims I disavow, your shapes I abnegate.
To my disciples I say only “jump”;
Adopt, in final moment, the butterfly’s art.