With troubled gait I, forlorn, went
To forests to hear message from spirits sent
Their music near imperceptible
My sullied spirit irascible
For its sad and slow descent

I had the vision of my self
Saw it in bad and woeful health
A death was creeping up in stealth
To send me to place of Love's dearth

The books have less wisdom than the earth
Which nurtures us the breadth of its girth
The homilies of hell have no worth
I gestate my soul awaiting rebirth
To arise from spiritual death