I forsook the careless sun.
The fire can’t be replenished.
The night crept up again
as delusion vanished.

Laying near the window,
I gaze at the bitter trees crying flowers.
Stupefied, my soul does sink
in uncomfortable hours.

I have little charity for my defects.
Life has to be a solemn twilight,
a vow of everlasting transformation,
if possible a poetical delight.

It is with some fear and acceptance
that I shall embrace winter darkness
as the paling moonlight still cries
in this moment of me with my madness.

I fear not the state of suspense,
neither the accidents of fate.
What scares me is self-pity,
the woman crying at my gate.

She is the shadow I avoid,
The barren tree crying for rain,
the unquestioned voice lost within
when past is written in pain.

I rise, feeling my shivering body.
The blizzard almost blinds me.
I just wipe my tears mechanically.
What will be, will be.

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