LAST CYCLE © 2008

Fighting against the strong current,

Pushing forward without rest,

This impatience, fortune or death,

Applies the lash to the gentle space.

In the warning of Perfection in the lesson,

In the smaller, discreet university,

The baton rises, an imposing hand,

Above the head, like a certain sentence.

The touch, a well-applied reprimand,

To remind of the mistake that is not forgotten,

A severe gesture, but intended,

So that the firm lesson is exalted.

The book of wisdom then opens,

Page by page, in the quest for knowledge,

Each test is a trial, it is the mission,

For those who seek to earn the diploma.

And when the day of graduation arrives,

In tones of joy, the name is raised,

The diploma in hand, victory shining,

In the speech, the echo of hungry voices.

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