Cracked near the dusty mountains,
As the weary sun does bleed
My heart sobs out,
Its music much like a hollow reed.
This ebbing day,
Tints suture on every cloud.
In this misty flirty darkness,
I can see my very own shroud.
Puffing its weeds, Night blows out lamps of the day.
Decked I am with trophies and garlands of defeat.
Who once were friends eventually said nay,
Pain it does, not having a haven to retreat.
Fires and shadows mingle silently,
With the gloom of dust,
The quest seems dying now persistently,
Life slips out of grasp, my blood seems to rust.
