There is soul, and there are things.
Imagine a world made up only of objects,
A world of idle tools,
A restaurant at nothing but tabes and chairs,
A large empty theater, or a deserted plaza in summer.
They cry out for the service of man,
The service to give them life.
We call on man to display his splendid capabilities.
We observe with undivided attention,
The little nuances in the quality of his service.
Give a flawless measure af his mind,
They tell us frankly what his soul is worth,
To serve is first to love.