Oh, for the dearest ink of thy pen may soon then fade,
And then may find'st the dearest of hopes may thus betrayed,
For an artist's soul lends him nothing but mythical spells,
For the mere soonest or furthest of inevitable future farewells.
Thus, then shall he plead to the heavens to forsaken his heart,
As such remembrance and dreams shall he wishingly forgot.

Oh, let the debris of the wholesome heart fall upon the shallow earth,
Let the facades ring the brotheling walls and the truths seek a'girth.
Let the warren mind rest a'las for there yields nothing but wandering soughts,
And let the mindless wandering commence for has this but painful broughts.
Oh, but the broken pen yields no longer an image of the artist stride,
And let's thy work fall beneath the consuming hunger of the oceanic tide.

Oh you fragile and unfaithful life, let thy be of nothing a flowing stream,
And drift thy way towards the crossroads and paths of tis randomic scheme.

For then, may you think that the fall of greatness is but a event of sorrows and tears,
And then you tell thyself that these sorrows comes not in singles but greater pairs.
It is only after the passing of favorable time does thyself inevitably understand,
That only through the death of greatness can the birth of the greater come a'hand.