Ashen tongue that tasted the squalor, br Young in skin, old in pallor br Tailor made stories unfold br Like gambits of the young, lies of the old br br I could write to say, flimsy and bane br “A fool thinks himself wise, but then, is he sane? ” br Under a considerably less fortunate wreck, br There lies a time under pretentious specks br br Spectral mist buoys by the vale, br If there is hope in this, then let it unveil br Itself, the gloom and the shades are far too young, br As if the night sticks its shriveled, dull tongue br br Look at what we have become, br Denying amongst ourselves, confessing among some br The austere omen declaims one fate, br That a man has only one destiny, sometimes early – other times late br br If there is a word in heaven, and a scripture in inferno br The purgatory spins madly in a world of vertigo br The demons infiltrate me in my sleep, cold, fortnight swings br The saints were sleeping in my wakefulness, the sunlight stings br br The pronged clouds above were abashed br From the mesh of the bloodcurdling sighs of a God, unmatched br Science, explain my faith, faith explain my science br Adherence thwart what chagrin lies in my constituted defiance.