Ah, the fleeting irony.
The scent of that sweet fragrance,
Fragile as the mist in the morning sun.

In whose lens do we view this world,
When naught have begun to wake?

Weeping in this night of solity, I seek
The pupil of another.
And so wakes the dream. Whence I see the blazen wheel of fortune
Landing upon-
Nothing at all.