I speak will of night, so ill of day,
Is all I know, lest thorn be known,
More drums I dull lest heart be drum,
In muse I wake, this cry I fake,
The meagre weep is lasting sleep,
Who knew this breeze lest rain to freeze
Till morning drew this life be brew,
From which I drink, from which to brink,
No dawn in sight, no man to fight,
No more is tried now branch is tied,
These hours be gone is come goodbye.

Category:
Mysterious, Poetry, Works
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