Can my days be finished now?
— fast were cast beyond my grasp —
The slow trotting of my heart,
Tell me, Holy, will it crack?
Hold your voice, wearing brass;
Hand it over, sober mind.
Did you ponder what will come
After sorrowed, under grass?
That craved time away will die
Chased by dreams of proper doing,
Though now's off, cold and rough
With no—one to keep it going.
A dented, ivied piece of rock
Won't be you, but that remembrance,
A blind witness endowed with lies;
Who were you, my brawling cock?
