The sun is muddled in the glass,
Warm petals to the seated crowd,
And so the evening blooms,
Rose dipped in amber heats.

Sleepy arm when he's awake,
I wonder if it's better in reverse,
The fickle pangs of mortal limbs,
So frail yet all the mustered strength,
The hands to which we look to hold,
A world or better squeeze and scratch,
An inch within our fingers cracks,
To grab the rocks and clay with clay,
Whilst thinking of eternal things amidst,
The dust where we are struck with stars.

Gathered quick to the ancient paths,
Held fast, the comforter is close,
Fill up our homes with hearty laughs,
Indwell us with your zeal eternal.