Insight has lost its worth
For it no longer blesses thy journey;
It is a burden, a hex,
Pointedly accusing
And draining all chai.
How often does it rain?
Even cold grass
Does not sprout green
For it has lost its vision,
Quest departed long ago
Sun turned into mold.
Gravel roads
And sombre trees
Who no longer speak;
Dormant, sleeping, away
Unto this vision
Cold and ungracefully lacking.