It rains with shivers in my zealot vow
To whom I was, to elder that I’ll be;
No lucid spring will blossom in the knee,
After the chaos of the falling crow.
No half or faked answers and no plea
To broken fortune in the mirror, now,
When I’m the reckless tyrant in the slough
Of recollection and despair glee.
No second thoughts; under the step will grow
A chasm, a heated spear or a sea