From my tower I look down, as I do near every night,
And I see what I am left to live with by the dying light.
I can see my dear companions, playing music bittersweet,
And I still can taste the nectar of the flowers that I eat.
There is much to feel around me, like the smooth stone of my floor,
And I smell the kitchen spices fragrant just beyond my door.
My friends' songs float up to me upon the warm and sultry breeze,
And I hear their cries of brooding, weaving through the weeping trees.
Even as I long to join them, I turn back to do my work,
For I know I cannot go there, and my duties I'll not shirk.
I hath made this world of longing when I peeked beyond the veil;
Although I may hope for freedom, my creation is a jail.