He resembles to a star-lit mantle worn
By those of ancient times, forbearers at whose word
Nature’s wide skeleton would moan or thrill
For many were drowned in this ocean’s still…

Demur, or fright or just some taste of bliss
Not one to feel, should he had it premised
Upon the rolling hills, out in the burning sun,
He withered slowly, thus magic forged to none…