Wind down my sun, my distant flame,
The solar wind has caught my pain.
On altars rare, of beaten gold,
I dare the goal, a coffer bold.

Burn not my eyes, my hapless face,
When at your smoking visage, gaze.
No sun spot mar your perfect shape;
Your withheld fury, theory's ****.

It's but your patience, keeps us breathing;
To ice we turn, at your slight leaving,
Though devils dance upon your gas,
A noble field, you'll be at last.