Dark and dull is her every day,
For fear and disorder crown her daily fray.
She dreads the approach of every night,
When her closed eyes shut out all the light.
In her mind, the horrific scenes are replayed,
And the memories of that night leave her utterly dismayed.

An excess of rage penetrates her every part,
And the agony in her soul is as deep as the wound in her heart.
The fury within her seeks a more becoming outlet,
But all art and nature's provisions are shy before the debt,
The green fields beckon her with a promise of hope.
But even these in their emptiness tempt her to stop.

The anguish of her soul has not yet found an external manifestation
For every vapour in her eyes swears to forego its condensation
The heaviness in her chest is more than the weight of many a lost love
And her pain is like that of a heart cut in to half.

Where shall this broken heart go, to whom shall it weep?
Who shall all these sorrows treasure and keep?
Only cry beloved heart, cry till every loved one hears
Cry beloved heart: even though you cry without tears!