“Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Not idly do all the leaves of trees fall, for not it is always an evil doom that’s set in their path. And yet I know not how I should speak of those. When I first look upon them, unhappiness can be perceived, like an old white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily and yet so hard, suddenly falls. Easily reminding of the latest days of me.
Late after sunset, I speak to the darkness, alone, in the bitterness of the night, when all life seems to be shrinking and the walls closing in about me, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in.
Everytime before dawn I wake to the same dark hour of the night, nearly morning, yet it’s like going away on journey long without a word spoken, from crueltyland to western shore, from northern waste to darkling woods, walking at my own will, though. As my shoes lead me through the sorrow, not a single healing hand is in sight, and my back is beneath all the load of a burning brand, like a weary pilgrim on the road.
I fear that the time may come when none will return, when there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of my home. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.
Well, here at last, in the ache of those who are dead, I am beginning to feel old, I feel it in my heart of hearts. It’s been badly preserved indeed. I feel all thin, sort of stretched against the clock, if you know what I mean, like butter scraped over too much bread. This doesn’t feel right. Many that live deserve death but many that die deserve life and I cannot give it to them, so how am I entitled to deal out death with my poor judgement? I have not much hope left, that I will be cured of this before I die, but there is a chance of it, for good or ill, before the end.
Sometimes, to get away from the pain and sorrow I like to think of myself at the sea, white gulls crying, the wind blowing and white foam flying whilst round the sun is falling, under cloud and under star, then turn at last to home afar along with the breeze or with the music welling underground from invisible hollows quavering and sound by sound, sighing, whispering, wavering that there’ll be a time when the world is relieved of hurts and mischances…
Wandering far in my mind, where the leaves have fallen, I can grasp at moonbeams glistening, lightly fleeting of off the ground, leaving me lonely still to roam, in the silent shadows of the night. Long has been the way that fate me bore, long ago he passed away, and yet I cannot see him. I cannot see him.