I am the only being whose lonely struggle
no tongue would note, no eye would mourn.
I never caused a thought of concern
nor left a smile on a stranger’s face.
Both secret pleasure and secret tears
kept me moving and looking, yet never brought in

the change I yearned for, to be drawn in
Love’s bosom. To surrender pride is such a struggle!
So instead I shut my eyes and embrace the tears,
all other feelings subdued by a need to mourn,
which I have become so used to, that to face
the ease of apathy is more painless than self-concern.

What is the measure of a soul’s concern
in the hollow where insincere service comes in?
When weary with the day’s summon to face
the mortal trade of pain for pain, in a struggle
against the readiness to despair and mourn,
they wake after I’ve cast my armada of tears.

The uselessness of trust slips away and tears
apart the hope I had of enticing friendly concern.
The ground and myself are the only ones left to mourn.
The road is made of broken bits of stone wedged in,
and my lips died so long ago that I struggle
to believe if they were ever on my face.

The world without or the world within – face
either, and the same corruption is there. Sacrificing tears
on the alter of good will, faithful to the creed of struggle
for a cause we have forgotten. Because of our blind concern
for a rainbow that long withdrew, we seem too often in
a hurry to bury the dead and forgo the right to mourn.

A life lived for so long, and still no one cares to mourn?
Though the hope of youth melted from her face
What a waste that shallow streams swallowed a deep ocean. Where in
her place now can you find the trace of evaporated tears?
The hit and run of black voids should be a matter of concern.
The loss of two eyes red with tender devotion; there’s no struggle

In living without something one has no concern for.
Imaginary tears as cold as a drill bit and feigning a reason to mourn.
A bare tree, white as ash, reflected in the window face, does anyone care to look in?