SONNET

What do you aspire to mortal, when in the pomp
of the lush greenery of your tender age,
still swift breath, and being rules
of your interceding existence Horn?

Deity you do not argue, what a fatal pomp
the haughty flight, that your inner pride:
if the same longing for security alternates,
how huge does the thread of your life break?

Oh blind presumption! Oh vain shadow!
Tree in the wind, how immortal you appeal
of your matter deny the harshness.

Do not trust yourself, no, from an early age,
well, from time to rigor, that you are not suspicious;
the flower is attached, like the trunk.