In the gleaming lustre of joy,
There's a requisite factor,
A hope to seek some buoy,
And to resist the impulse to shatter.

I open my palms to the divine,
And beg for a prodigious fate indeed,
Listening to the cries depicting the sign,
Until despair eats me up inside, counting as a need.

But is it genuine?
That all corpses turn to the might,
I neglect the thought and continue with the credence of men,
As thought it leads me to the height.

Alas, anyway,
Despite the greed to reign,
In a shallow corner of my bay,
I yet restrain, the hope to attain.