When the cosmos got chilled in the way my own voice did,
I can see no attunement in harsh water wave...
Global harvesting spike, almost ripened, enchanted,
Growing in a strange way in the spring, by our breath...
Keep dissolving in shadowy sorrow concordance,
In a hurry to vanish in April abode,
As a matter of fact, searching for sheer essence:
What the sun rays and full-throated birds singing code.
So the sheer bliss will come, and the hope expectation
Will refract through the tract, as eternity choir.
It will stop streaming like the old-time false sensation,
Making me solve the dispute mire with sacred fire.
Only pensiveness changes the look for the image,
Which is offering prospects of vow climbing stair.
But again I can hear your rapt voice. It is large.
And believe me, it jewels the dismal day wear...