I haven't written for a while,
And I don't think I will soon,
It seems as if my sun has set,
And the night has sealed my doom.

I've lost my pen in the crowds,
In the dark, roaring, and grumpy clouds,
I've lost it somewhere in the damp rooms,
Behind the back doors or the narrow streets,
In that empty alley with worn brick walls...

Perhaps I will write again.
But not here. But not now.
I am enveloped by the night,
It will take me time to find myself.

Perhaps when the morning comes
I'll write again.

Saying the same words
Louder
Won't make me listen

Farewell now, peaceful dales, farewell to
Familliar hilltops that I call to
Farwell, familliar wood nearby,
Farwell, the beauty of the sky,
Farewell, glad nature that I cherish;
I am exchanging my dear peace
For noisey, glittering vanities...
Farewell my freedom that must persih!
Whither and wherefore do I strive?
What can I hope for in this life?

The night is cloudy and the stars don't shine,
The raindrops on the window are illuminated by the cold street light.
Perhaps I would be able to hear the roaring wind
but it is silenced by the tick tock of the clock on the wall.

Maybe, maybe I will write again,
Maybe, maybe I will learn to play a happy tune,
One day I'll forget elegies
And stop making these melacholy effigies

I don't really like rhyming now,
They sound too happy and are sometimes cheap.
I rather write to my poems and say, "Thou
art my biggest mystery, you're too shallow. You're too deep."

So in conclusion,
I don't know why I'm writing.
All I know in this confusion
Is that the night is cloudy and the stars don't shine,
The raindrops on the window are illuminated by the cold street light.

The clock is ticking. Tick. Tock.
The people are hollow,
The people are stuffed
leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.