Swallowing the sour water of the foremost fruit,
A quavering flame draining my adamant skin,
With an arduous field swiftly enveloping me.
Gone are the minute pits
Of the young plateau.
The perilous spoke could not
Subdue the unnatural trees.
The enthralled chariot has decomposed
In the faraway compassionate mud.
Even the golden arrows erased
The faded figures in the frozen sand.
But, these unconscious escapes merely delay
The final encounter with the meek jaw of peace.