This dawn, I was quite flabbergast myself to read a sonnet written by one of the greatest geochemists ever lived, Mr Robert Garrels. It is ain't other Sumerian or Aristoteles' types of poems. It is neither John Keats' style of writing. He scribbled his poetry from geo-ish attitude, seeking a vulnerable pathway to articulate his profound anxiety of one thing: phosphorus cycle, something that I would never thought of lay it as fashion of literary art. Eminently an opulent manner of articulating the cycles of phosphorus of Earth. I put some phosphorus into the sea the biomass did swell but settling down soon overcame and phosphorus went down toward Hell From purgatory soon released it moved up to the land to make a perfect rose for thee to cary in thy hand But roses wilt and die you know then phosphorus falls on the ground Gobbled up as ferric phosphorus a nasty brown compound The world is moral still you know and Nature's wheels
There are hundreds of languages in the world, but a smile speaks them all.