All the lights are lit.
There - deathly mists and smoke -
Beginningless gloomy all,
With her native I with my spirit.
But all the lights are still hot,
All I languish in the fire lane…
Just the thought gives birth keys,
Growing cold dream of glory…
Brother, and the thought leaves and freeze,
It will force the former to boil,
Only sweet heart sigh,
Just throw me a call - fly.
Fly to all the lawless,
In the sky, with grief, Zamri…
Only the horror born here.
There - a tender memory of him.
September 1902
