As we travel down these rigid mountains, We can hear the scream, and feel the eye, That is ever watchful of our weary footsteps. A wicked rain drips down from the black clouds, and feeds into the soil. The new crimson sun melts along the edge of humanity, And urges the corrupt vines of this mind to grow to the sky. After so much effort, Brought forth from the deepest pores in my body, I receive this. If only this trouble did not arise every day. If only these feet could take one more step. If only the trees were green once more, and the wind clear. If only this whisper in my ear, Wouldn't whisper so near.