The lone night bird lets its pain soak
stranded within the ever mourning moonshine
within the dateless rustle of aspen leaves
for all vagabonds to fall
for all innocents to see
that life unconquerable remains
a sinuous line of trenches
lying in a sultry wait
of the gallant men last standing

Thus if I dare,
and if I fall,
I mind it not – coming to naught
for so a doleful voice may sing
and may the night watcher vindicate
my grinding away at the deciduous forest
my passing through this fading season.