How could we expect this madness to turn up any leaf other than black coal?

We wild  would be suffering our fool selves through our roof of heads to expect this madness to turn up any leaf other than black ones. 

We'd fool /be ourselves to suffer much more than we are...

And in the zenith of thine green light I find our matron hope, none other than her, clouded with spun threads
Of chagrin...


Leaves above our heads casting shadows and overshadowing, letting light beams glisten and soak us
from time to time.


Soon Chin Puccha.  CHingga.  Chinnga.  Roral  Rorel.  Rorle.s  Blurel.  Blore  Blor  Plore  Plora  Pplures  Plurbes

Pllubrii  Pillabri?