T'is cold outside, and I am caught in loneliness again;
I am not with you; nor you are with me,
But this lyrical poem is not about my pain;
For I know, you'll never want to be with me.

I cannot hear you like I did before;
I cannot feel you like I did last summer.
I cannot hold the scarf you always wore;
I cannot play the song we used to sing together.

I have a troubled, troubled consciousness;
Remorse has taken me and my happiness;
My verses dither and change and alter again;
I write and giggle and sob, all in pain.

Where is my dear, my venerable darling,
When I'd be satiated by his words;
Where is my love, my flimsy little bird;
When I stand alone in such bald worlds;

Like an old tree jolted by fires and winds;
Like a red rain halted by worried skies;
I speaketh worldlessly to my naked curtains;
When I dream of death and a sweet last breath;

Like a round life wasted by its bare soul;
Who in its death frets once and again;
But in whose flights screams and laments;
The missing bits are not to be found.