Wakened by the turbulence of thought
and fed by hopes more insolent than lies,
this log we need, too soon shall start to rot
when on it stands the one who holds the skies
and heavens-he alone holds them apart.
Bitter foes have made their peace in time
and logs once rotten fertilize the soil,
but you, oh you who knows not death's decline
for lies you simmer, truth will make you boil.
Hope, sweet hope, will fail before you start.