Braided will into knots of men's volition
Have slipped down during the invasion of morbid
As a trunk of walnut tree or wild rose stud
It stings
It not aims
It provides backwards
And clashes with pain

Once we climb the tree we are rich
Leafs and kernels all around
Rose is something else though

It stings
It provides backwards
And it clashes with pain

Alas, fetch the nuts is climb on the rose stick
Looking forward
Seeing wounds
Braided will into knots of men's volition
 Do we call it death?