I have died
    on the cities
        and moors.
Avenues great gold
    and
        Godly.
Where the antelope
    Walk
With eyes pointed
    Northerly
The seascape far and
    W   i   d   e.
Bright eyes and
Misty days
    None are left
        They've all turned olive green
As bees fly
    down
        wind
Whispering with gilted
Tongues
    Slithering