Whistling deor who knows of end does not smile
without a slimy tear ; the silent drop falls
with an eccentric calm ,
Wind runs fast , and with it sways the beast's hopes
Of life ; For it doesn't strive , nor bray , but
calmly sweeps its feet, feeling the green grass
but esurient no more.
Rather , invigorates and moves towards
the machete ; intrepid in all its steps
And a smile sanguine , hoping
for greener fallows hereafter.
