When we sleep or die,
know not where we lie.

Futile mental exertion,
blurring the vision
of wisdom
from
breakthrough.

Remov'd, affection horn . . .
heavy flood of tears flowing--
blood emotional's gushing
out from a heart broken.

Walks without halting gait--
changing styles;
swims across Dire Strait.

Why art thou staying still my breath,
Who suppose to have long perished?
Why dost thou count me amongst
The living, that ought to have vanished?

To life am I not entitled for many
A reason--am unworthy of being;
Yet with thy strong arm of grace
Hast thou been blessing me, O heaven.

On the altar of even and morn
My fairest love for thee I burn--
The incense of mine heart,
That the frankincense's flame
May consume you whole, dame.

Love not m'heart
at
a lower rate, stringing me along.