There is a Lambo like an extreme spirit.
If I start it, it’ll sound like a symphonic power.
The doors open with superiority
upwards and hopefully higher.
They look like a gate leading into an impasse
but, when they close, they fall like axes on the Ego.

For even here, sitting in it, charmed I’m not.
Gosh, what a drama.
It roars abnormally: O heaven, tremble!
And we, born true-blue mortals,
on our knees for the miracle.