From his foamless tiny bed I picked: Loneliest home it is; darkest sight I see; And silence drums my ears; beyond bad my condition-I dare not sprawl when pain me skin far beyond bone in the palace of six feet - unfit any lived velum during feasts. Here I am - the home of emptiness; the hut of hotness; the fold of coldness; the termite home that houses worms and rodents; I live with my long elapsed dead deeds. Love is lost; my properties - now turn lust. Once I was a cemetery passerby waving and wailing, to my beloved, goodbye. The other way I picture, I poke, I pare and tongue their tears as my divine fate live me. Finally I have paid - my last debt I owe Death... Cry not; dry thy tears - my return won't come. thy last abode soon too shalt be formed.