How bold then be this wind,
that it dances ‘neath the sky,
only to venture e’er onward,
with want of its earthly rest.
How brave then be this sun,
that it burns its constant fire,
only to scald the skies below,
with want of turning into night.
How blessed then be this moon,
that it has no raw tears to shed,
only to cast its borrowed light,
with want of the tide for answer.
How blind then be this rain,
that it sees me in vain illusion,
only to caress my withered flesh,
with want to permeate my mind.
How bared then be this earth,
that it holds all human stain,
only to strew its surface unsung,
with want of sacrifice of flesh.
How brisk then be this death,
that it bears no more tolerance,
only to hold my hand as guide,
with want of my virtual peace.
How bathed then be this grave,
that it envelops me like water,
only to sing me its silent arias,
with want of my captive soul.