An Old Poem:

Like first fruits born
Of a barren womb
Empty I came
So I was consumed
The dust drank up
The blood which called
For the harvest of men
For long since the fall

Still dreams persist
Long past grey dawn
Through a chorus of souls
Still I stumble on
Beneath watchful eyes
So deep and so worn
Like the end of the age
That sad, tired morn

By cross shaped trees
And blossoming tombs
I peer through the dust
Of my own upper room
And to my ears
A whispered fate
Your voice remains:
“Still darkness waits”

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