O, find me in the silent yard!
Rustling with fury foliage
There, where whines and groans unheard
Chirpy azure, discharged mirth
But under the sun, I long to slake;
‘Tis my dying soul with chilly breath
I’m a cloud, lightning: no peal, no sound!
Silently mourning with strange dirge
O, I, the brave wimp; sorrow had found
I’m a living death;
Dying to live an age
While things of agony, crowded;
Laments and prescient presage
I’m the dirge, weak lips of air blow
The torment, graves abhor to bury
The trampled flowers’ bellow
But:
I’m bullion that lit the nights
In their activities of murk,
O! I, a jailer, enslaving plights!
Yes, I am a swift fleeting chariot:
Racing to where peace poised
And to pain, I be Judas Iscariot
For I’m a beam of faith in the sky
That soon must bright all
Man falls, but must soar high!
Written by: Stephen Crøwn Gyet
