Pomposity is the need of the day,
only its hues change by the hour;
My friend reveled in it with glee,
only his eyes remained uneasy;
As if he spit words like hay
which the cow’d shun like the plague.
Like oasis in a desert that shimmer.
Words have weight, believe some,
but they belong to an archaic age.
Humility, he said, is owning one’s
fallibility; even purists’d welcome
but for the stumble in his tones.
Humility is an ethical light afar,
Can stones aspire for the Star?