Such wicked fools,
What angry, half-crazed things they are
Such despair sticking to them
Around them and through them
Difficult to be certain about
How they have fared for so long.
Such violent buffoons,
What dramatic, forgetful things they are
Such regret spilling toward them
Behind them and before them
Problematic to imagine
How their mistakes continue on.
Such loving simpletons,
What brave, tender souls they are
Such passion within them
To end and begin them
Hard to know
The depths of their love.
Such magnificent dolts,
What imaginative, dreamy-eyed things they are
Such creations flow from them
And I, one among them
Impossible to understand
All that is contained in every one.