I must not cry at every impediment,
For ‘tis belittling to the universe.
I should cherish my mortal being,
A little tear I should not shed.

I must not be void of sanity,
I must not hear, I must not love.
They must not hear my story,
Their love should be enough.

I hear their thoughts and silenced cries,
I sense their fears and wearied lies.
For love is a battle when ‘tis a wound,
For love bleeds not in its sound.

I avoid with them, but pass with them,
Through a gate of dead morning dews,
I see no sign of a graceful poem,
I see about me nothing new.

What about their tearless sights,
Too distant from the Northern Light,
That ensuing misery is admired,
That a corrupted joy is desired.

What about their endless lies,
With such discordant daylights,
That all beasts are evil no more,
That love is not good, but worse.

What about their idle truth,
The unsaid myths that ring mute,
The unspoken ways that watch,
The false that I should touch.

I must proceed, I must not awake,
But in haste have they made mistakes,
That all other sins are soon enticed,
Growing alight at the harmful nights.

And my lips soon wake with fear,
All innocence sounds and seems weird,
That I speak with the truth of a liar,
That there is no fact in my words.

And my heart soon races with tears,
All justice being put backward,
That all normality is not here,
That I have been torn apart.

Who are they to find but a reward,
When white blankness is not a coward,
And who are they to estimate a bliss,
For love does not demand a kiss.

Who are they to find the stars,
When they have not gazed upright,
Nor are they alive through the night,
To see the ice, the Northern Light.

Who are their souls so belittling,
Their voices neither grasp nor sing,
Who are they to read a butterfly,
Who are they to find grace.

And my pen is not about me,
Nor are my words mine to see,
None is thrilled, not by my verse,
Then how shall I writ, or converse?

And my books are not beside me,
Nor are my pages there to be,
None is intrigued, not by my words,
Then how I shall attract at first?

And my poem sleeps far from me,
Leaving me for the heat and sea,
Leaning on the sun and its rays,
Falling in love with the sick days.

How should I atone for my sins,
How should I deserve to be seen,
That life without thee is no delight,
That ‘tis a breed of injustice.

How should I atone for my foes,
To remove all woes and cursed throes,
How should I turn back my ideal,
How should I see again my fall.

How should I atone for my love,
To live and die and breathe and laugh,
To live my tales by thee alone,
To be the poet and youth of my own.