When the cloud that once wandered over your vale,
leave you alone in the dale,
you weep for a friend that is lost;
when your tree is conquered by wintry frost,
and your misery is mounted by choices,
that is when you are allured by the voices.
Of shadows that pull you down,
of the oblivion that makes you frown,
and of your beloved that was once kissed,
and the endless starry nights that are now missed,
your wandering clouds are now pouring,
and the sheep that was hurt in now roaring.

The chants of your sadness are being sung,
at night in the pine of the young,
and the sun of your valley has now fled,
for your cloudless clime has bled.
The muses of your poems are now stuck,
in the cup of fate where wine is found with luck,
you yourself stand on the hill screaming all the night,
and in the morning you seek your own fading light.
You wander the roads seeking acceptance and love,
but, do you not know, it is of your black dove,
that you seek of its approval for it is a part of you,
you think it’s dead, but it never flew.
O respect the yesterday, and bow to today,
for tomorrow you will do as you may.
O to live today, and tomorrow at the same,
and to cast every star with your name.