There, is light but none and he,
He, but is not the light I knew,

These dims that call me from far,
Is far from him as light never was,

Though mine heart is ill and conjured,
Though conjured is little said but mourn,

Ere morn, my morn is the evening hollow,
Is God more the light and dark too still?

Alas, of the night my light is utter spent,
Is ill before and my sight is hinder lent,

Free are the chains to chain him in time,
In time he shall enter the crossroads lone,

And not shall love but bitter hope be gone,
My hands tremble with cold and rain to fall,

Mine art is waiting and still as patience,
Though dark is he but no light never sees,

Who walks but does not know where he goes,
Fate draws him from one ere yonder throws,

Fealty as is my coarse yolk ye rippled blood,
Steps through how dark and dry is sunken dared,

He drowns through abyss ye’emptiness wait,
But this to swallow though his to drown,

Yet still he crawls to walk to crawl away,
Takes care though no fear was he himself unmade,

‘Las shall feel himself that depresséd state more,
Festers in dark though keeps himself empty more,

In the dark he lingers, and I seek to seek him,
Take care, for he shall convert and darken you.

Category:
Counterpoint, Mysterious, Nocturnal, Poetry, Works
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