In blades of grass—so young under the tears of sky.
Shattered, fragile in a forest made of glass.

Under a moon's walking due; as the sphere of Sun's pass.
I throw my heart's mass into the winds whisper—guided
in the voice of above compass.

I shall unmask beauty pinned in the skies, painted in the
natural scent of Earth. I yearn as the birds; singing a pleasing
song of day's first. The last sweet symphony till the earth is
no more. Before the Collapse.

Let me die singing to thy Lord,
in the following song of Heaven's chords.