O my days, consumed by exile's cruel decree—What is fate? Is it compulsion's bitter decree?
I see life, barren without thy visage's grace—The eye weeps, and sorrows are vast and unchained.
I see nights, desolate and void of repose—To me, light and shadow are one in their shame.
O Mother! Weep not for parting nor for sorrow's load—For days may yet bind me to thee in their course.
Wouldst thou have my heart crushed by affliction's weight—And live, while thy pains gnaw at my soul's core?
O Mother! If life should drain me, and fade—What right hath it, save the love that thou gavest?
Dost thou see justice rendering judgment true—While mortals slumber in sin's oblivious haze?
Dost thou think my fate lay in my own hands—Eternally, 'tis but a fleeting, bitter dram!
Think not all hearts pure, O Mother, in their making—For hearts are oft scarred by the wounds they endure.
Who is there, just, to judge with impartial hand—While wrong doth feast, and peace is trampled, torn?
I pine for the mother, tender, worn by toil—And cares, like flames, consume my weary soul.
I pine for the shade, the shelter once mine own—The autumn wind, now but a ruinous breath!
I shall ever sing of arts, joyous and bright—Till inspiration's light shall cloak me in its glow.
I shall sleep, while the world sleeps, unaware—Yet find but strife and bitter, endless fray.
What joy in life doth I yearn to possess—Save what the days have robbed me of, and left?
Let me live in poetry's fertile embrace—Where dreams, like paths, lead me through realms unknown.
I see existence, in all its myriad forms—A revelry—though strife, it ever doth command!
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