The merry death of monotony,
Beside four ordinary walls - the seige,
Of heaven fierce upon the ramparts,
Its truer hidden life blooms fresh again:
A chorus in a thousand accents,
The praise of freemen at their shattered bonds.

Tuning strings alternatively,
A tuning old but sparsely seen,
At least by me - I talk from hats,
But yes I haven't language like this,
Of strings that sound a little lovely -
Different and resounding.

Coalesce and luminesce,
Among the drifting pomlights that hang,
Ripe for the picking, their cyan halos express,
Lining the cavern's sandstone contours with vibrance that bangs,
Pom juice will soon flow out from the press,
A heavenly nectar when proportioned with purest water,
Drawn from the glistening deep rock pools,
That lie below in weighty meekness,
The image of serenity,
Cooling down and holding up the caverns spacious plot in rolling dust.