In a dungeon, he sits silently
muses infused with meadow,
Is he mourning for the past?
Nope, how can he? Locked in daylight savings,
waiting for the enthralled thrust—
Go back! Ninety nine second's passed.
In the ceasing light, he mourns, pines
for present, but chasing past lives gleam
ecstasy of future seconds come, yet what's
now or never, know the voices that deem,
seems like a new prison in the dungeon hall.
Can this dream be a feverish decay?
Seventy seven lives got lost,
He looks back, is it backward past?
Lurking with hornless voice, hear me out —
In the balm of gain rest, he dwindled with
fear faith, comes back with one repose,
"I don't know where else, but my foes are dead."
— 6th December, 2023