even as he stumbles, he smiles.

flamen juventas, you stand too close
to the pyre of antiquated laurels;
listen to your father. find and feel,
and then you may just comprehend
what the slender deities
loitering in your dreams cantillate:
el viento de la noche...
lingua ignota runs in your blood.

(though the sun is bright,
son of man, heed intuition:
stars burn brightest through the night.)