Paled face, cowled head
Eschews the buttons' brew
Young race, tricks us dead
Our civilized communes
This cactus drought, Gods' earthly bread
Eventually, too soon;

we all are thrown before the wind
the evening sun the mornings star
this prescient glance and pregnant pause
all cast a ways before wind to fall in timely rest
the fountains' spill o'er mountains crest
the badgers claw and eagles breast
we who would soar shall find our rest
beyond the failing skies
we who would soar shall know the taste
of Gods' own tears we cry