No wind nor rain or preachers pain
will soothe this land of floral green.
Cursed be; thy tongue of truth...
That swells the eyes and beats the brain
The prosperous sound that I endure
Through ill and pain and volvulus strain
No bleat nor howl or treacherous scowl
Will heal the heart of this dear land
All scorched in grey where thistles rein
Reeked by pain and acrid rain
Spindly branches curled and frayed
Thorn and twisted with decay
Rotted graves of knaves and slaves
Scorched torn rags with sinners tags
All lorn in grey and stamped with pain
No bird and bee that poets dream
Will spare thy seed in times of need
Through fog and rain that leeches reap.
Death and silence leads this land
Except the moans of those who groan
Cursed be the flocks and weeds
That choke the wise and those who dream.
Wondrous spells from you and I
Who wave our hands and wonder why?
Just like the land, we live and cry!