How They Marvel May, ljóð frá 12. nóvember 2019.

Trying for the best of bees,

brilliant loser on the wing.

Sailing to the seas,

suddenly they fall and hear the ring...

 

Baby if the burden talks,

brides of happiness my way?

Willingly she walks...

waiting for the sunken, useless play...

 

Ugly gender as they feel,

only words of proven might.

Daunting for the deal -

dips of happiness and seldom right...

 

I just how they marvel may,

meander where beauty goes.

Dying for the day...

dame of power, try it, how it showes...

 

Must they do it harder, herd?

Heather is the one they knew...

Waiting for the word...

wrinkled still and they are even few...

 

Sacrilege, they say it's new!

So the present might be wrong.

Draped in waygone dew,

drums are pounding outside, crying strong!

 

Conscience, if they care no more...

cannot say I hold it dear...

Waiting for the war...

worn out, cannot understand the fear...

 

Ask it, yourself... answer then!

Only you can find the truth!

Doomed, this is the den!

Darling, easy, there we trust in youth?