The sun is out bright,

hiding the darkness of the human might,

The wind blows over the deserted field,

   washing the sins of the holy being.

The trees bow down by the pressure they feel,

    dreaded by the worldly sins.

The world a ragamuffin,

     dressed with sin and plight.

The ranger of the religion,

      with rapacious thhoughts inside.

The world is approaching towards its endlife,

        and the dwellers are fully satisfied.