Summer never came that year, the year it was all well, for perhaps the first time they went away
and left us in peace, the nights were not warm enough, the stars were too far away,
it was not summer that did not come but I who hid away.
My life has made confinements, I followed them you see, Now my heart is hidden and hidden too from me. This world is not made for forest folk, for poets, or the ones,
who cry at thoughts of dying soldiers, yet they have never met one. The world is not kind to artists who still do not fear to dream, our angers have gone cold, and instead they burn us well.