Lost is the soul in Time's wretched hands,
Found are the chronicles of sorrows past,
Bleeding is the heart where devotion stands,
And dead is the mind of dreams surpassed.
Bright and bold dost the golden sun shine,
But no part of me shall be discovered there.
In dim skies where lonesome Luna whines,
Thou shalt findest me where the stars beware.
Even then, in such dull and wintry days,
Where ripened trees expire and dim flowers loll;
A doused root of pleasant memories portrays
Those sweet years of carefree bliss in all.
And for now I think it best I shall remain
In what was and will never be again.
