Thee wash'd mine own senseth of lodging, thee wash'd it in the wine. Eff'rvescence wast enow to waketh mine own dead eyes. And at which hour mine own eyes w're hath found undead, thee spake few w'rds. But true w'rds hath brought living to life, spilling with myrrh. And anon, all I can bethink about is how longeth ago. How longeth ago it wast, at which hour timeth I didst not know. At which hour I wast non-static and didn't wanteth to beest. At which hour minutes w're grace, not cinders to beest setteth free. From soil wh're hounds bark and it sounds liketh nothing. Mine own listening rest'red, und'rstanding something. Something is in ev'rything, not ign'ring this. All this I hadst seen and I thank thee for the wine.