Welcome. Please have a drink on the porch,
Welcome, dear evening.
Beg your pardon for slurred voice.
Pardon the gathers of moist
On my black eyes.
The flickering darkness of the forest,
Mutely lifts its face towards a deathly moon.
"Soon! Wait shall be over soon!"
Cries a nocturnal bird's flight
Hands slightly tremble.
A few drop of spirit fall on old lap.
Pardon the old chap, sir.
He has lost a part of spirit from his being.
Let us three, listen to the
Mute flute of the end of the world.


Comments: 11
Good round. "Cries a nocturnal bird's flight" is great.
(spelling: consider "moisture")