The Furnace Of Fires

There is my pain on the window pane
There lifeline lain on the country lane
Leaving moor mourning for the moon
Like the goat shacked by coated bears
Flying clowns from the sinking crowns
Like the pieces from the broken beach
Fountains of bitter folly and blindness
They play their lyres within lying spirit
Letters are laurels’ and litters’ interns

Plucked from obscurities and security
The moon marks bear-beads crawling
The skies filled with pregnant cisterns
The sharp morning is a furnace of fire
Hooted in the seas, hailed in the skies
And the herds of castles grazing grace
For sparkling beauties and splendours
Wild and ferocious in the man’s heart
Silently, deceptively in death’s gowns
With the embers of the greed for gold
Men are razed down in their numbers