Lament, wake me gently to an unborn dawn,
Lift me, hold me as I limply protest to the resounding cry,
“She lives sir!”, but I live not.
I am a shadow made but only of the darkened slate,
Of your empty eyes, looking on towards the glinting horizon.
I am but a hollow mist, cast before your tortured thoughts.
But am I truly a mere figure in your thoughts?
Is it I that rises steadily? Or is it the dawn,
That fiercely chases the sun across the waning horizon?
Oh, by lament you in your daft confusion? Is this why you cry,
Your delirious eyes, as lifeless as that blackened slate?
“She lives sir!”, but I live not.
What do you know? You know not,
Despite the impatient grinding, twisting, writhing of your thoughts,
Your heart is as dark as the slate
That darkens all but the rising dawn.
And in your heart of darkness, you cry;
Misery, rising alongside your horizon.
But lo, what is it that you see in your horizon?
For what pleases you, I see not.
I see not, and I know not why you no longer cry,
Why you struggle not at the mercy of your thoughts.
Could it be you have finally seen the dawn?
Seen it through those eyes of slate?
But what see you, written upon the slate?
What, is revealed by the early light of the horizon?
What, have you seen by the light of dawn?
Thought I see you, you see me not,
At least, not myself that lay in your thoughts.
Why is it, you make me cry?
Cruel phantom, I beg of you, cry!
Cry out over this wicked piece of slate,
That was vanished me from your thoughts!
Return you wicked sun, be gone foul horizon!
See you not what you have done? No of course not!
Return you morning dew, and wretched dawn!
Leave me not here alone on this wretched slate,
Leave me not here to die by fair horizon, petty dawn,
Forget me not, cry for me, I beg, lament! Loose me not from your thoughts!
