Oh, to be both the fortune and the loss,
to be the kitchen made wet by stumbling;
but to be also the shards of glass,
cracked by the hand even before the fall,
and the water spilled, which, with no control,
chose grace in landing.
In landing now, I see the just choose spillage,
like a jury who without fact must condemn their convict,
and crack the beaker that held the formula.
Spilled as now I am, there is no conformity to accept.
On the floor, one is one's own captain –
are you held by, or holding now, the diamonds of the eye?
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