The bare earth full of sorrow
I scan the land,
With the lamp of light.

I rest my hand against the tender green buds,
Wishing for a friend.
Snapping light twigs with a half *** grin.

Now it's just me and my wooden prison,
Too afraid of the world
Afraid of what could be?

No amount of wine
Will stop time, and yet the tendrils fade each season.
And the groves grow cold.