His thoughts be trailing, no harp is sound;
His thoughts can only stir, ne not so bad,
Nor not so bad is he who walks gently away,
Who walks through night in search of meaning,
Meaning that only he can never just defy,
Who to defy but is slow to change in time,
To change in time means to rise to be better,
To be better is not to revolt in one’s mind,
Better that he walks silent and slow too still,
Too still was that which his heart would stop,
And his heart was clear, how best it may be,
And the answer’s clear, how much he ought to be,
To be seconds that once they were so fine,
So suddenly fallen into minutes a dainty glow,
How wretched it is a man to move mountains,
To move himself better falling over again,
Again he shall rise whether for what it is,
Whether it be pity or not, can never show,
For it can never show what essence is,
The essence of being part of the picture,
The picture of his paradise once he lost,
Once he lost, so shall he remake again,
Once remade, he shall be whole again.

Life, Nocturnal, Poetry, Works
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