We plough, he plough, then suddenly
Death hearth his warmth toil on him
Swiftly took his art to a golden lie
First thirst, speech, vision, hear and touch
Alongside with his dreamy bucket list
Let his ariel to wander farther
Through the brume of the night
Beyond strains of the schism bar
To the wonders of the overshore.

What is our power if we must revolt?
No likely wish could extend yon this cave
Even with many elixirs drunk, yet a lie
And with the luxury of gold and silver
Yet gold has its own stay, and silver a tie.
What then remains? We're with many tributes
The blues of a thousand throbbing hearts
Rewinding and revamping our lustful days.
Tis last 25, but we jingle bells with gun wounds.
© Ken Orlene Tari