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.

To spartan prose the years are turning,
Coquettish rhyme the years are spurning;
And I - I with a sigh confess -
I'm running after her much less,
My pen has lost its former pleasures
Of daubing fleeting leaves, it seems,
Today, quite different, chilling dreams;
Quite different unrelenting pressures,
In stillness or in social noise,
Disturb the sleep my soul enjoys.

How intense can be the longing to escape from the emptiness and dullness of human verbosity, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labour, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion!

Who goes there?
Who tries to enter this sepulchre?
How did you make your way inside?
I built my castle on the highest mountains,
I built walls around it so great that no being could pierce them,
I hid my heart in the most complex of vaults,
How did you get here?
Did you fly in with the wind,
Or did the moon bring you in?
Did the stream carry you,
Or did you outshine the sun and he let you enter?
How did you get past the tempest outside?

Who are you?
Why do you wish to tread the world of  shadows?
There's nothing here to see but the weeping souls of the exhausted thought...

The wind roars
The sky is patched with clouds
The leaves swirl in the wind's embrace

Art is a statement about life's truths.