Mournfull stars at which I gaze,
Silent moon, a world of grace,
My tears leaving marks upon my face,
Their shredding is my disgrace,
For many winters have faded away,
birds would leave, better to stay,
and yet I find a world of decay,
as summer dies, and rots away.
I was the first, the last, supreme,
I was to become great,
and yet, or death so makes it seam,
my live in fire hath conflagrate