Tears of fragile
breaking glass,
down softened isles
do they pass.

A lowly shade
doth creep round,
as they grade
stray are they bound.

Whither have gone
the days of green?
Before gold was borne,
and title king.

Whither have been
the vivid dreams,
why've they dimmed
to shallow means.

A world concave
and full of spite -
though while some pray
to see some light.

The loss now seen
is too far to glean

The righteous
will never come back.

- Stephanie Tomicich