Merely is the bread, wine and thy flesh,
Thou countenance, thou eyes and the rest,
It works in harmony its thou sense,
The weariness is the achievement made,
Its the effort of thou pain all because of thou aim,
Working in a sunny blue sky, heat and coldness
And a deep fry,
Blurriness of the sunny sky,
What brings the light yet it lives for so long?
Perhaps its the origin of sin.