Son of one has left us, stirred of emaciation
Upon plank has the heat grasped?
Love of the tree to brook, a forgotten relation,
Just as dirt on hand shall never pass.
Free of gloom,
Amongst passing in pending doom,
Hitherto forgotten, yet a thought shan’t lash;
And youth coward as cowards seek mass
Sheltered here forever more,
Rain shall rust minds steel door
About refuge of heat spoken in rhythm.
Grasp faith and defect from lore
The end is nigh, though do not give in.