Crow of the **** calls into pleasant dreams,
The ray from the aged untamed fury sun gladdens and saddens him,
The greet from the aging locust peddler seem a bleating scream,
He forever lay in a mere shell of old ache grim.

The curtains of reminiscence aloof, except for memories unknown,
Mood wavering in desolation and shade as though of lingering rose with no jack,
This, for thought of dabbling feet in flowing stream consumes him,
And all that remains is unpleasant voices humming sorry words of comforting smacks.

The path to history is but mystery as it is concealed from his field,
For no more shall the earth hear the scream of his ***,
Or the wild winds feel the sting of his bows and shields,
Nor will his sweat watering the ocean go.

Perhaps the richness of brightened exploit may yet do more good than evil pats,
Yet smokes of his name falter into desert winds as though he was sand in bank of oceans round,
His uncompleted hut accommodating vile and evil cats
Nor his farm an exchange give for **** quickly gain ground.

There he lay waiting to awake from chaos of truth,
His mind forever lost in dead battle,
Once was he called the pride of the glowing village, the taste of all maidens and the taker of Ruth
But even now his betrothed forever is in the arms of another embattled.

For like many he was, conceived and born along the path of known,
Whimpering in the want of food, his mother alone,
Happy, when cuddled and clasped from flames,
But now left to shadows and shading fames.