The deeper I step, the darker it grows;
And I hath the time to argue not;
Not even to open my frozen mouth;
I do not know what stands in there.

The farther I walk, the colder the breeze;
Even t'is anguish shall dry and freeze;
For I have no more tears to wash it out;
Nor the sight to keep it all awake.

The longer I stride, the moonlight faints;
And I am but alone to pray to the saints;
I have to head back before night fails;
You are yet too far, and 'tis now too late.

You are not here with me, not in my voyage;
Thou who left my love at a young age;
And 'tis unlike I was thy fine one;
I was the ******, the cursed, the worthless to thee.

You are not here to hear me, nor my poem;
You are not here to save my asylum;
And you have shrugged your chest in horror
You, who condemned me for another love.

Like those branches, my heart hath stitches;
As autumnal as t'ey can be, they hurt not;
Not having been cut short nor alone;
Sweeping not t'ose quiet forlorn melodies.

On those branches, where there are holy songs;
Swinging from where they sit together;
The lady angels bow down and laugh;
Just like I used to live and love.

On those leaves, that no longer live;
Is the fresh bloom as 'twas yesterday;
Wreath'd too red on thy cheeks and lips;
Lips that have gone, nor shall kiss me again.

Here I am alone, alone and without thee;
With such tales t'at are long buried;
I am killed by yon trance every day;
'Tis like thou haunt me nigh' and day.

Thy voice rises and dies and rises again;
'Till it surprises me every now and then;
Yet thy long moves are barely here;
Just like the rustles that I hear no more.

I am startled and stupefied and startled again;
I am too alarmed by my own red voice.
I shall sit until dawn fights hard to resume;
But here I'll be, jailed by my own poem.

And who knows what sorrow shall mean;
Whether it means tears, justice, or just memory;
Who knew I'd but be here today and tomorrow;
Because fate is not for mine to grasp, nor to see.

And there is no abundance of moon or light;
But these tiles and floors of snow, somehow;
I'll sleep basked in that cursing cold, tonight;
Without thee nor my candlelight, anyhow.

And there is no abundance of love, in between;
All is blurry yet elegant and unseen;
Those who know not what my heart shall mean;
T'is solitary being, alone 'mid the deadly rain;

Ah, but thou art too polite and nice to be here;
With songs blended far into the crowds;
Its hymns and rhythms made for hot dances;
In the summer of chaotic bliss and faces;

And I, the ordinary poet of the beyond;
Whose words are oft' left crisps and unshaken;
Whose gimmick oft' remain untold;
Never reaching its bashful prelude;

And I, the loathed poet and magician;
Who says I am friended and not alone;
Who says t'is place is but magical to me;
Who says I am guileless and innocent.

And I, the deserted and the weak;
Unlike thy affluent dust and water;
Am just like my nymphic soul within;
Crying silently into the barbaric rain;

And I, the poet, too naive for thy kisses;
Not even ashes nor tea of the sweet sea;
I, the loner, who writes only skinny dead words;
Unborn for thy rustic love and worlds.

I, the cold, the one for the cold and winds;
Who lives not the weight of thy summer breeze;
Nor witnesses the height of hot gravity;
And better be left in t'is drained insanity.

And I shalt but sit here and strive to writ;
Bearing t'ese itchy wrists and breezes;
With my bleeding gloves and apparel;
Waiting for love t'at shan't ever come.

And I shalt but not twitch nor tread back;
For my name is now an all-dead wreck;
Enthralled by some and yet misery to chests;
I shalt seek not to go back and rest.

And I shalt dream here and not come home;
They shalt want me not but have some;
To drink with loud cheeks and wild fervour;
To live and to die, to breathe even in their deaths.

And I'll be lost in my daydream of you;
Though just a lie t'at shall not be true;
I'll wander now until I find the shore;
Ye' unlike thee, I may not be alive any more.

And I'll be lost in the dark of winter;
That I and thee shan't be together;
Unlike said by the handsome tale I saw;
I am dark and dead to thee, from now.