Do not run joyful into that bright fog,

Do not run joyful into that bright fog,
dire pain should burn and clutch at close of play;
fume, fume against the hating of the tale.
Though fine fools at their end know lone is deep,
Because their feats had discerned no peace they
Do not run joyful into that bright fog,
bright fools, the best ease by, crying how strong
Their worthless crafts might have glowed in a fresh vale,
fume, fume against the hating of the tale.
weird fools who found and wished the ark in dreams,
And learn, too much, they hurt it on its way,
Do not run joyful into that bright fog,
mean fools, in fear, who grasp with piercing touch
broken hearts could grow like ferns and be gay,
fume, fume against the hating of the tale.
And you, my hero, there on the grim street,
beat, urge, me now with your bright mind, I pray.
Do not run joyful into that bright fog,
fume, fume against the hating of the tale.

Crunch!