Faith is a funny tale,
Banging!, on no ones thought of what door,
Humming and cooing and my window jail,
and trudging at my pondering floor

To quicksand it desolates -suddenly-
from titular crown of metals to pallid birch,
All cones of mono roll down on a trolley
with the tetra floss that burns the torch,

Fate is a formidable foe,
Descend itself to morrows fort,
discriminating as it comes and goes
to what it justifies at court,

Stepping to festive cascades,
lying faintly on the tomb of beds
Where the harbinger harvest withering fades,
there it cuts the echoing threads

So we alone stroll at chrono's fraud,
Brooming dust into makers state,
Sack of pennies nods; smirks at prudent gestures sad,
That is when and then we go back to old date