Oh this grey prison of our waking eyes,
It is colder than our long-lived and taciturn tides,
The moon smiles, beaming, upon our wavering way,
Knowing that our fervent sun will soon set fire to our new day.

This stranger pain and that neighbour sorrow,
They are jealous of the colours we are saving for tomorrow,
To blot them with night's ink is their insidious intent,
Let us hold our precious currency of colours, even until our last breath is spent.

The advent of our springtime seems as unlikely as our salvation,
Perhaps our darker clouds will begin to cry for our hydration,
Those tears would greet that arid soil like the dew drops greet the morn,
And from the dearest droplets fall, our spring is here, our spring is born.