A duel of dialects is conducted in me,
The dim subconscient hordes emerge
From the hidden recesses of memory
Plying old fears and their subterfuge.

The troops of human passion roam
Depleted, heedless and forlorn,
For no conquest leads them home,
No savour remains in all that is done.

The thought forces are all arrested
In the twilight air where nothing stirs
When not by a higher will propelled,
On mind they seem like carven motifs.

Tutor these by Thy light’s language,
Their fevers by Thy presence assuage.