Submerge yourself with sorrow
make every wish aloft,
cease the leaves of lead.
Soon they will be unenvied by them all,
bream like the sullied.

Grief as sure as a fired gun.
A house without windows,
and when the door opens
they glisten of earthen ware
within a cold summer murmur,
words are all the same
a tapestry for the unfulfilled
and God is weary of the rain