Here is a place for you, Set down on fields, that through Your pointless wandering, All breaks down, sundering. Fire that sweeps From your shouldering gaze, Autumn that creeps Towards your Hellish, false haze. I am, what can be called Music, for what is walled. You have trapped yourself in your own glance, Broken and torn up in your own stance. Life did not leave you with many paths To walk upon, Blood only sides with its own white bath To step down on. You have your poor Hell, I'll have my Heaven For some life given Freedom from its shell.