I'm no longer a child, to build a fortress outside.
Is it not absurd to mend the shores as the ice-floe thins?
I cannot pretend I don't know that I hang above the void,
Like an autumn apple, waiting for the storm to begin...

Perhaps the gardener will come, the lord of this earthly sphere,
And he'll spare me, not leave me for the birds and worms to rend,
He'll make of me a wine, and set it in the cellar cool,
So in a future age, the guests may drink it without end.