Sore to falseless torture;
The known winged heart thou soar
By side the gap twixt bodies, the being and the pen
Saith by all that sorrow is plentiful, mayhap more than the ruby
Grown truth such growth unknown, canst I but many years later finally rest
As now not ever to seek interest in tales nor alchemy
For materialism our only asset
To be true to nothing, so true to truth.