I am not the light of any eyes, nor of any heart the peace or truce.
A friable object of no use, I am but a dry handful of dust.
Not at all a lyric's life-giving sense: having heard me who should act on this?
I'm a wail of ruin in the wilderness, and the voice of a blazing heart's distress.
Color from my face has long been gone, since my one true love was snatched from me.
I'm an autumn-slaughtered garden trapped in my own spring crop's stillborn loneliness.
Nor am I any soul's beloved soul, nor am I indeed any rival's rival:
I'm a fate in flight to its flailing fall; one tall flatland turned to a vale of tears.
Why would anyone chant a requiem, placing some stray florets upon this tomb?
Why would anyone shed a tear over me, a crypt of helplessness?
