There's nothing I can hold against you,
there's almost a sternness in your voice
strengthening your steadfastness,
your eyes if they wished could rail
against light travellers.
Your own Mother who you asundered,
to supple perpetual altercation.
Dark, dark your hair will seek accord
The Ocra fields were you played
casts forth a margin of your secrets.
I pray our grave court
blinded by your  wonders,
serpentine and whistles
at the stroke of midnight,
whose union will shed
the growing embers