In the mist of darkness upon
The hours of rest. Under the
Colossal bloekom trees.
Diagonal to the sunrise,
They were made to rest.

The four lane wire was
Thought to gonna be the
Wall to sustain them from
Moving either way, under
The cold giant shadows of
The bloekom trees.
They await to make a knight
Until the wee hours of the

Thou talks’t inferior language
To the universe. Thy horses
Wont stop crossing the dusty roads
to fell asleep in cold waters.
All on the gravel road heading
To the city they flock influencing
Mean death.

Only in the center of the blowing
Winds and, moonless knights travelers
Feel hated by the gods!.
As they try to pass through the arc
Curve that is so blamed sidestepping
African knight mysteries.

It is naturalness of the knights
At the point of death. We die on
These one, to live on another.
None knows a thing of this twain
Life that is cast.