Do not haste the prophetic words of your own hand,
For the fate you shall take is sacred and not swift.
Do not waste the prophetic elm of your own deeds,
For the taste it shall make is novel and not meek.
Grown shall be the hauberk you bear on the day you bid goodbye,
Farewell to all summers, come the harvest week.
Sweet shall be the fruit reaping from your trees,
For all summers you laid low, slavish under Sun’s seek.
And do not underestimate the stroll that took you where you’re from,
For all the time you’ve been preparing the joys of harvest week.