Sleeping hurts
even less.
And for a hundred years
he has shut his eyes.

Monday's child is fair of face.
Tuesday's child was full of grace.
Wednesday's, end of memory.

The roar of silence. And all
around, its chaos. Stirring up
no one but the haggard pack.
In a hurry to see better.

From the face it would have
to the face that it hasn't,
which should come to be seen?

The pack hurrying up saying
with its range of mouths:
Monday's child is fair of face.