When the Sun falls down as a tale,
I will sit and watch it burn.
How it darkens our dale
And the shade’s becoming stern.
Vented monsters will surround homes,
Wailing thoughts will flood my night.
I can hear squeaking bones
Of a dead unmarried bride.
Blackened squirrels bury their kernels,
Nuts will bury their roots.
People, wrapped in their purples,
Lie with rotted shoveled loots.
Should I keep my soul as a secret,
Like you keep your folsehood still.
Moon will be an entrance ticket
To your last but wanted will.