Look, how sadly the fir-trees are bowing their branches
As if they mean to show the distress of the world.
Who desires to leave the old haunt- he just stanches
When we’re feeling the prototype of the homeworld,
Which embodies a clean copy of strange sensations
Which embellish the color map of ghost-like dreams,
Putting me to forget it, the late desperation,
Overjoyed and inspired. The keystone, as it seems…
But again I will hear the sounds of lovely warble
They encourage to think there is love and good light,
Calling me to put up. The sad loss, it will hurdle.
It was caused by the sinful background and from spite.
It inspires to fly with my new revelation,
Through the ruminant dreams and the evening sun plains.
Generates inner outburst, with a supplication,
Per the parallel circles of landmarks and chains.