spring

At dead of night I rise from sleep
and dress myself for cold;
the years are growing old,
and you have faded like a leaf:
the phantom of my grief,
the father, I once lived with
in my childhood, which was brief.

At dawn of day, in garret's gloom
alone and fully dressed,
I lay me down to rest,
to dream of long-forgotten spring,
whose birds no longer sing;
that season, scarred with sorrow,
when they crucified my king.