I walk these painunearthed plains
of willbewildered orchards
where nothing else but man remains
as he, himself, in torches
will walk the field of fire
in changebewithered chains
yet not set to transpire
throughout the crooked lanes.

I've seen the plains of crooked fall
in wind unending yet too short,
be gone, thy pain, begun thee all
and set this fire forth
in windmills of the north
where echoes of my fingertips
give birth to this apocalypse.