To every infant love is given,—

but between work,

profits

and other stuff,

from evening to evening,

the crust of the heart grows rough.

The heart wears a body,

that body—a shirt.

and that’s not all, they’re obsessed!

an idiot!—

inventing cuff-links,

somebody

started pouring starch all over his chest.

Getting old, they see their mistakes.

The women start creaming.

The men exercise, resembling windmills.

Too late.

The skin is already covered with wrinkles.

Love gets nourished,

flourishes—

for a bit and withers.