Wry not, thy sorrowful soul
For the mist ain't wander no long,
the sparkle has crossed the ocean's kin,
In the gayness of the day.

Wry not, thy bloodshed flesh
For the scars won't bleed no more,
The molten magma has chilled down,
Over the anvil of the hay.

Wry not, thy lost mind
For gazing soothes won't hide no long,
The frost has lost the painter's brush,
In the warmth of whom thy pray.

Wry not, thy pricking bird
For thou seeds to pick won't hide no more,
The branch has bloomed a fresh pair today,
For all your kind to stay.

Why not, thy father's son,
For the demons won't survive no long,
The cross has not lost it's vigour,
With the easter eggs astray.

Wry not, thy penship's ink,
For the treacherous blots won't form no more,
The ink hasn't lost itself
For another hopeless, gloomy day.