Left here in land of hill and peak,
where storms of sorrow slyly seek
to weary me and weigh me down:
I never chose this tortured town!
These song birds, blown upon the wing,
they squawk and sway, but rarely sing.
Since bleakness blinds them, blinds me too:
turns sapphire skies to black from blue!
Left here to age, while clouds race by,
I wait, as one by one they die:
those vestiges of youthful dreams
that flow away like sea-bound streams.