I seek not to recline in envy,
though for many it is a cushy couch;
Its sinewy fangs delve into veins,
corrodes blood with serum of reproach.

Many would cut their tongue out
before owning the acne on their face;
Yet their amours with the vice go on,
until light goes out of their eyes.

Envy has no borders, colour or race,
builds its nest where borne by the wind;
A starry-eyed seer’s Utopia too is
no taboo for its fateful errand.