nae body kens hwat thou wat, a goed en or a bad, yet beating hearts ken, n auld eens wot. so, hwat shal be forever marrow? mony a mon be here, yet still soothed skies and blinkin stars, amangst the bustle, true kam worldlie delighte, yet nae alane ken thy bouer’s bryht. hwer, o hwer, be the auld tides gane? far from the tide of the lambkin’s bide. for ther be ayes, and there be nays, yet true hearts may delighte in thy sade een. yet ygh wot it all, yet oft nae be soothed. whatever so it sall be, ygh ken now this sooth. may mony a day ygh cry, ken this true, for nae mon kens better than thou. ygh cry, ygh ask for why, yet never a sigh. ygh ken hwy, but ygh still nae ken. oft ygh wot for these een nae more to cry, banes gang cald, n breath no tides more. soothe mine hart, God, and enthrall me nae mair. so ygh prattle on forth like wee birdies of spring. hwat ye can do, ygh wot that nae not. sights of black, temptations of sin, what greater demand than a testament’s end? yet outside’s pull always cometh again. ygh ken: one day it will happen again. ygh pray it not all be for naught. ygh say it all, n ygh wot it quite keen, yet behinder it all, mine hart be unweened. ygh scream, n ygh cry, nae worry about. so tae grass on meself, let me sing it quite clear: oft ygh dear yearn for the reaper’s weal. ygh wot, n ygh ken, yet for true, ygh nae hwy i so muck abaut. nae mon kens when fair tides come be, nor eny mon ken hwen nighr mares run free. sit wallow and bear, ’tis the thing to be done, i think on this wave, what a peculier sum. spokes break, new fastenings come though, in the center of the wheel of the true weal in you. take girdle, take whip, for thy will be command, yet fair hearts know true, that there’s better than hope: to see and let go, to love yet not cry. these things i see are no taller than i. when things grow dim, fate be undone. come take my hand, let us go for a run. a new spin, just one, oh, i say it in jest, one, but not one forever the rest. wicked visage come many, and i feel its great hoof pumm’ling down through my bare trodden roof. yet build it again, i suppose, in my strides, i know better; than to fight with the tides. perhaps it comes next, or any great morn, should it find me at breath, i know not from the rest. in visages come black tawny horror and fear. oh God, give me rest. yet i comfort the few, living deeply through i. all this blood screams out, spilling out for the flies. alas, alas, perhaps one shouts, yet all will be undone; when thy time has run out.