Alone upon this wretched stone,
Contorted, bent and torn, paper-like ragged clothing.
We the universal ashes, the brotherless bone,
Utter from hearts made barren by their loathing.
So sands soak seas, and grasses devour the sun.
Still are we not orphaned by apathetic tides?
That kiss and tickle, dampening our ambition.
And reminding us with the toll, that within us dread presides.
Broken sickles warily monument this soil.
Weakened authors draw visions of a new land,
But stand bare-faced and burnt, tormented in toil.
Yet and yes, with softness I will kiss your hand,
My love seclusion, let us exhaust ourselves together.