Sun

The new sun hath risen again and shone O beauteous sun, its flawless perfection it hath shown. Thus light from it wast of haven impeccably urged, For the destiny of its evil deeds’ concomitant wast yet purged. None hiatus in the mist of its smirk to bepaint its gross, Nor that that it loved so dear, so soon in oddly loss; To shine t’other side wast its splendour but nought its wish Nor to scald so deep to clear mistemper’d waterfalls upon earthly dish; And never to wither the grass in the rejoicing forest, But to make it lucid of aridness in the brawl against the worst: The sight of its rays hath misgiven yet some consequence of despise, Which somewhat didst profane pilgrims all made to paradise. God asked: ’Sun, would thou likest to pray and die or livest and eat pie?’ The sun smirked, portentous in its tyrannous chariot; and chose to die.