A tattered grey shawl snaps in the chill gale. 

The widow scowls it is these times.

She hugs the graveyard closer to her heart.

For there is a howl of cold wind,

but it is not these times.

Books fall open when there is no path back.

A lifetime's study fails to show the way.

O, Arrow without target deprived of peace. 

Sustain yourself through an emptiness,

but it is not these times.

What can befall a soul worth speaking of.

Gained slowly like the power of language.

Knowing no equal in appetite.

Suffer in silence and hunger anon,

it is not these times.