Classic Poem

When in a dent of the cliff
white blossoms
jut out on a devil's walking stick
with its swarms of thorns
I walk down the narrow slope before a ruined pub.
The cut rocks are moist.
The rotten smell of the bushes
of the gods spurned and turned
into plants by Jupiter
powerfully stimulate the brain.
The eternity that hides
in the nervous system
suffers a transparent thrill.