Sinking the sun will drown in its own blood
With last conscience its oozed out blood
Bine stemmed branches of oak tree
Stormed by good twin present everlasting
On high pinnioned seas.
Shrunk shriveled the heart
Shudders in tentacles of willow trees
Touching not the fervourless spirit
Resting unwearied for nothingness
Plumed and ruffled
By bird songs of no avail.
The death lament winded not
In wilded plains
Stormed downwards the reddish glow
With all the despaired
Brained and eyed
Ever felt by the human touch.