So to hand comes the harvest,
ail-timed, in my age full early;
ire-blow I hail.
Now arrived at its reaping,
my float-life has not flowered yet flees me.
Rill-tears must flow.
I deal on my deep-fame
into kingrick's most careful keeping—
but full cold seems death!
See here for the form, and find Cosmic Warlord Kin-Bright here.
