Packed are my trunks to the brink
With dreams and sleepless eyes
Still, the mind's eye wants to think
And thus wants to sever the ties
That bind the will to my love
East of the Sun.
In the land of plentiful pleasures,
The Buddha hovers on eaters of lotus
His lips dare not to lose focus
From spread dishes of treasure.
That build the road to be followed
North of the Sun.
In Winn's pages of state
The hero's feet the desert follow
Manat, the third, now all prostrate!
But still the crescent feels hollow,
Her edges sinking deep
West of the Sun.
The topic's thundering storm
Tears words to pieces and thunders
Remains the body yet born
In seas and landlocked blunders.
Yet I rule in everlasting burning
South of the Sun
Merci pour la lecture!
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