The clouds are purer white, and spread across the sky,
The sun can breathe a gentle hush of hope into my eye -
A simple hint that this
may be more than just a glimpse,
That I may see the spring and summer again before I die.

But when the days are bright, I feel worse come the night,
When the sun has left me all alone to trust my straining sight.
The shadows in my room,
The closing sense of doom,
I have no spirit left to fight and no way left to keep the light.

So though the air is pure, and birds are singing for
the end of winter, start of spring, there's no way to be sure,
That I will make it through
to see another June,
Or that I will not end my evening by bleeding on the floor.