Should dead trees lay uninked in vain Death shall come to skin my mane They’ll drain me dry to paint thin corpses Bloodstained sheets bounds and warps What truths I kept locked up and caged
I must not waste another page.
Should Passions press their plans to gain What pleasures tease them; thrashed by chains Bruised, disconcerted, they’d cut my tongue Ring it dry to wipe words unsung While I pillage and drown my house in rampage
I must not burn engulfed in rage.
That once known pure now lies down **** And submits its flesh to be tattooed This holds my heart, unyielding to change Its fire and fervor forever estranged With thistles and thorns we nourish our sage