The hound seeks fresh buds all noon,
For it used to be a bud itself,
The hound desperately stares at the moon,
For it’s never seen such wealth,
The hound senses death comin’ soon,
For tomorrow it shall take its last breath,
The hound to tears it’s immune,
For all joy it long ago shed,

The hound roams around the fields of June,
For life shall it pass to buds n’ create pelf,
The hound collapses next to flower Dune,
For its flesh melts away like Agiel,

The hound’s veins grow roots n’ flourish into trees of prune,
For the very life it compelled,
The new born embraced the hewn,
For a hound he once was himself