Misanthrope

when your land drops its pride,
and gives it to the wilderness,
buried summer leaves will haunt,
in every cold place where you rest.

as you remember the dreams
and those smiles in every flower,
will be gloomed, and you'll be doomed,
the hell you seek will start to seek you.

rain will fall before the autumn,
kindness in your eyes will wither out,
the swamp will swallow your legs,
and you never feel what was eating you.

devil's trumpets will grow wildly,
as a sign of your mournful death.
if it blossoms in fortune spring,
I will adorn your grave with its decayed flowers.

But before you die, I have something to reveal.
"The devil is never real but I am"