The vulture's verse through windmill's blades is spun.
A shrill and acrid accent, most verbose.
With axle's grinds, symphonic sacred hum:
A scorching screech of stimulated prose.
The silent wordless speech that preys on dead,
Among the nameless wanderers exchanged.
A breed that lies and deviously treads,
An irony of messengers deranged.
The wav'ring windmill wearily withstood
The thrashing thunder, merciless monsoon.
And when the vulture's words assailed the wood,
The spinning blades of virtue made them swoon.
And so, the windmill's might repels the vulture's verse,
The windswept scavenger's remarks diffused, dispersed.