Don’t give in, soul, the grass is shivering

As births are gorging the sky’s shades,

The moon, the comets get ready to bolt out-

And where are now the icy wrath of dead,

Your loss, those lost omens from fathers,

No places to be seen, only the bush

Where the wind flows, and a bit of green from her shelter-

But what can they do, limbs or words

Against snarly shades, or stares freezing them,

Souls who dream that loss can breathe light,

So blind to a shady green deal-

Look, drop it now, that sham breather

When your sky drifts away, a dispersal of souls

To shelters of silence, among raving stares

From the dusk, yet the moon is cheering him up,

 ‘You’ll never go blind, my artist’,

Then with crooked words, and twisted smiles, she quits-

Not fields nor prophets, not water nor daffs for you,

You can’t join them, nor can you steer your desert,

The names you failed when stroking mirrors,

Hints of hope so high on joints, or lost beggars

Whenever a die-hard hunger reshapes

Her colours at night.