Neither the cruelty of the sun
Nor the unyielding darkness of the night,
Do I fear their touch, their wrathful sight,
Do I fear the chronicle of what to many they have done;
But life, human life upon this world;
This world of days warm of days cold,
I fear being the flesh that does feel both.
I fear just what in grand this world beholds;
Pain, despair, Mourn, Oh how endless they are in numbers known,
And I, in tears, sigh, in scream do I express,
Each and every feel of their touch upon my bare flesh;
For I am meant for them, as they are meant for me.
But delight, Yes, this world does behold in grand,
And it’s for delight I live, as with delight I wish to die.
But this world of days warm, of days cold,
Keeps this precious gold, which I hunger for,
In deep, dark, in caves so bleak, so cold;
Thus pain, dismay, despair my flesh must bore,
And tears must reel, as of an endless stream,
As must be harkened my sigh, my scream,
Till my hands reach the hands of sweet delight,
And shines my all, beneath its lustrous light.