The aroma of coffee and old books,
Of Fridays and their incitements.
This evening, on the clear pages of this book,
Were traced some vain verses of Reality.
The young student reclined on his back
Tired, worn and spent of college works
Expendably, he glimpsed at his face in the old mirror.
He conceived, with no amazament now,
This face is mine. His fumbling fingers traced
The disordered beard, the discoloured lips.
The end ot this young man could be now
Who knows? His voice confessed:
The end of my days could be near
My life is spent like a candle in the wind
But my songs; my couplets, which probe Life
And Her excesses, shall bid on with its fate.
I am none other than the son of the soil.
Author: 
