The city's light and darker places
are all strange to me.
I only see the glint and flash
of some other's recognition.
But mine is dull and lost.
The mist rolls in and dampens
all my spark,
and on my light-less windows
spreads the dew.
Here in my gypsy nightmares,
search I for you,
And reaching out, with staggered hand,
write to you.
See here, on darkened window, I breathe -
Write once, then in great sorrow,  leave.