The eyes that opened, found a world estranged,
A burning fire, solitude's dark page.
Grief’s cruel hands, they tore me, piece by piece,
As though I were a treasure, lost, released.
Apart I am, from bough, from season's grace,
A bud's brief crime, a smile upon the face.
Why weary so, at but a few short strides?
My path, you swore, would be at my side.
He who immersed me in my very blood,
Was not a stranger, but a friend of old, it would.
With my own hand, I felled the towering tree,
Upon whose branch, my dwelling used to be.
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