Within the dreaded blooms I lie;
in the fields of endless indigo, I go to die.
I glance to see thee, dear willow atop the tree;
for I see no light within my very eyes, I see only bleak disease. 
Burdened with the doubt of any man, much more than I know;
I hear growls, the growls of the dead, and even that of a crow.
For I am destined to join them, join them in hell;
my very actions have filled me with contrite and despair.
I have seen horrors, the vile souls, cast upon the land to leave towns in fumes;
they are those who surround me within these indigo blooms.
Look to me beauty, in my final demise;
look to me once more, with your angelical eyes.
My blood runs freely, all from my veins;
I’ve been bitten by the devil himself, and now I await.
His disciples, ravenous cadavers who feast on the weak, have taken a liking to me, this is true;
with their jaws, they took their choice and now I lay here looking to you.
My eyesight has blurred;
damn thee for all I have sinned and slurred.
My skin has rotted;
I am, in no doubt, a victim soon to be forgotten.
I shall run with the masses, the ungrateful undead;
leaving behind a path of crimson bloodshed.
Destined for eternity, inside decaying tombs;
they are those who surround me in these indigo blooms.
O sweet willow I bid thee;
you are much more than moss to me.
May Physis fill you with all delight;
to help you brave this hellish blight.
With no resentment;
No bliss;
No thought gone amiss;
I shall take in my final hours;
amongst these sweet indigo flowers.