The leaves have fallen.
The ground, a dwelling bottom.
The shooting stars have splintered
into the coldest winter.

I, myself turned
from golden crimson
to burned. Charred leaves
all cover the streets. Only blackest

ravens fly. The end draws nigh.
I hold my cup up to the moon
for dewdrops of the spring draw
soon. As I see ****** buds poking holes

into the bloods I awaken. And the world
breaks into the greenest pasture.
We'll have a morning after.
The song of the lark and blooming crocus
makes us focus.