Though I fade slowly
Reclimbing routes of wonder
Barren up, how ?
Only blights, a thousand thunders
Heaven sent, blackness storm
Warren born, the ant of mat
That areth sprained to seakeneth
Blood a stream meant for those foundling
Coming up with frailness
With memories of not-knowing ant
Freedom must be so manic with us
Lord smites, and our bodies are done

INVIA LE CORREZIONI