An endless barrage of barges once were,
yet now seek less, and imitate scourge
upon a fervent wasteland ruffled with wind
across this river we died for our sins.
Once a bookshelf sat in an empty room
with anticipation of a groom
waiting and looking across the barren straight,
to find no more than flotsam at its wake.
In the days of home a literary gem appears
and a private conclusion seems to ever near,
but with one last fire extinguished by wind
across this river I died for my sins.