A painful story from a sistering vale,
My spirit of approaching was a double voice accorded,
Merely down I laid my words to speak the sad-tuned tale,
Young fickle maid in-front of the sunly pale,
I stand in-front trembling throughout my veins,
My blood was getting warm at-wain,
My words had left in the abode of confusion,
My pretty face soaked and beat well by the hungry rain,
It made me sour;as I battle myself upon her head platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun.

The carcass of spirit upon her was done,
The ashame in me had begun,
Tearing my words apart no longer left in the abode of confusion.,
Unfold with expression of...