~~~ The Why Files ~~~
~ The Why Files ~
There's appointment with yore at th' brink o' e'ermore,
Where the light opens door to the shadow of the poor;
Thereth reaper, so grim thumbing books of our sin,
Meets the scythebreaker's cut who makes swift end of him.
Morn' executes night with stiletto-tipped rays,
'Pon His altar of creation, to bring us our days;
Whereth mourning of dew, vaporescence anew,
Pours her angel juice brew o'er the green, from the blue.
So rise up now ghyll, fen, ye hill and thee wold;
Ye wanderlust cloud unseen heav'n hast mold;
Pray, sing Him your song hid in fauna and flora;
Give praise to Good God of our Lord and the Torah.