Empathy With Tattered Cape

Weep every don.
All the translations were fake.

The yellow peaks do not burn the
sky, now at sunrise.

I am forgetting myself-
in the gathering of my foes.

The pilgrim's path is now dirty.
You cannot transcend the-

dead remains of ancestry. In
the hutment, that was the end of view.

Nightblindness. I cannot fathom
out the saint descending a great depth.

From beastkinds I swim back
to save an unborn epic.