Yonder it conjures now

Tarry not towards the end, await and appreciate, 

As art thee now, thy sorrow and your joy...

For such hurricane is it that thrives now,

Amidst ye fields remain that drenched in so auburn a meadow still,

With acquaintances so pleasant some company may thou fancy,

And betwixt ye descent of the red as befalls an evening so inevitable yet, Certainly not desired - yonder awaits us both, ye visage wears that a grin must I despise indeed.

Behold, art we on feet so different yet,

So closely pace they for either of us to be blind, must I entreat thee to bother -'tis an abbey, merely me own. 

'Tis me land of ye celandines, and rosemary pervades whose scent now,

Hither and thither.

Look! thee body of such relation to me,

And one owe can I me life to, look! Yonder sets the sun on west, and

Ascending is so grey a moon now - ah!

Pity I ye sight of such ugly a spectacle! May I confer me amnesty thou existence, in whose skin art carved,

Scars so inflammable to my touch?

Must thou be told for must I let thou know of ye same -

'tis hence that I ask.

Nay! ought not me accompaniment be So jaded a kind to coerce thine senses to escape.

Must thee not do a runner, bear with ye ambience that pricks, ah! how cruel at its utmost!

Doomed must be ye sun ventures that to hurl ye light of its own on a land of its possession!

Perish it must, ye lanes witness that a welcome so sweet -

Lilies, and pines of some sylvan sycamore stand that right with ye hornblende -

All with ye lullaby of nightingale merely hath me ears sought ye dirge of.

Ah! so merciless! I know.

So strident this chirp of these woodpeckers with a gale so reckless and foolhardy in gait,

Ah! how must thee be bothered at thy most furious,

Yet, pace of thy own is one so inexorable that meant art thee to continue, this ramble fancied not even in name. Indeed, oh thee skin so delicate!

Aware am I of this cacophony as well, merely accustomed to conceiving it anyway,

Yet, too much is consented, too little heeded, and room of us both in the smidgen - nowhere at all.

Visualise thou - this forest of such mayhem, do thee not?

May thee know -

'tis wilderness bending with madness so toxic that behold me eyes around,

And 'tis cataclysm perceive I already coming...