A VISITOR FROM MARS SMILES

A VISITOR FROM MARS SMILES

“Erudite and burnished poets seekPliant strength from Latin, French, and GreekPhrases, finding English incomplete.Or do they conceal their real defeat,Like some juggler, faltering, who dropsCircling, rapid balls of words and stopsTo relate obscure, pretentious tales,Hiding nervous moments where he fails?”Torban, visiting from Mars, becameSilent, and his smile, like mental fame,Rescued the obscurity of flesh.Then I answered with a careful, freshPurchase from the scorned shop of my mind.“Men must advertise the things they find.Erudition, tired after work,Flirts with plotting vanities that lurkPoutingly upon the edge of thought.Languages and legends men have caughtPractice an irrelevant paradeWith emotions morbidly arrayed.”Torban gave the blunt wealth of his smile.“We, in Mars, have but one tongue whose guileDoes not yield to little, vain designs.Feelings are fermented thoughts whose winesBring an aimless fierceness to the mind.And a row of eyes, convinced and blind,But we sip them carefully, for weDo not like your spontaneity.Children babbling on the rocks in Mars,Shrieking as they dart in tinseled cars,Are spontaneous, but as they grow,We remove this noisy curse and throwNimbleness to rule their tongues and ears—Juggling games that slay their shouts and fears.Novelty to you is almost crime:We decorate the treachery of time!”

“Erudite and burnished poets seekPliant strength from Latin, French, and GreekPhrases, finding English incomplete.Or do they conceal their real defeat,Like some juggler, faltering, who dropsCircling, rapid balls of words and stopsTo relate obscure, pretentious tales,Hiding nervous moments where he fails?”Torban, visiting from Mars, becameSilent, and his smile, like mental fame,Rescued the obscurity of flesh.Then I answered with a careful, freshPurchase from the scorned shop of my mind.“Men must advertise the things they find.Erudition, tired after work,Flirts with plotting vanities that lurkPoutingly upon the edge of thought.Languages and legends men have caughtPractice an irrelevant paradeWith emotions morbidly arrayed.”Torban gave the blunt wealth of his smile.“We, in Mars, have but one tongue whose guileDoes not yield to little, vain designs.Feelings are fermented thoughts whose winesBring an aimless fierceness to the mind.And a row of eyes, convinced and blind,But we sip them carefully, for weDo not like your spontaneity.Children babbling on the rocks in Mars,Shrieking as they dart in tinseled cars,Are spontaneous, but as they grow,We remove this noisy curse and throwNimbleness to rule their tongues and ears—Juggling games that slay their shouts and fears.Novelty to you is almost crime:We decorate the treachery of time!”

“Erudite and burnished poets seek

Pliant strength from Latin, French, and Greek

Phrases, finding English incomplete.

Or do they conceal their real defeat,

Like some juggler, faltering, who drops

Circling, rapid balls of words and stops

To relate obscure, pretentious tales,

Hiding nervous moments where he fails?”

Torban, visiting from Mars, became

Silent, and his smile, like mental fame,

Rescued the obscurity of flesh.

Then I answered with a careful, fresh

Purchase from the scorned shop of my mind.

“Men must advertise the things they find.

Erudition, tired after work,

Flirts with plotting vanities that lurk

Poutingly upon the edge of thought.

Languages and legends men have caught

Practice an irrelevant parade

With emotions morbidly arrayed.”

Torban gave the blunt wealth of his smile.

“We, in Mars, have but one tongue whose guile

Does not yield to little, vain designs.

Feelings are fermented thoughts whose wines

Bring an aimless fierceness to the mind.

And a row of eyes, convinced and blind,

But we sip them carefully, for we

Do not like your spontaneity.

Children babbling on the rocks in Mars,

Shrieking as they dart in tinseled cars,

Are spontaneous, but as they grow,

We remove this noisy curse and throw

Nimbleness to rule their tongues and ears—

Juggling games that slay their shouts and fears.

Novelty to you is almost crime:

We decorate the treachery of time!”


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