Are there withered moons pouring melancholy,
As if from a worn beaker is poured stale wine?
Are there tired suns that climb horizon slowly,
As speaks a herald of royalty too soon fallen?

Are there hued birds that have vowed silence,
As falls mute a lover’s songbird-heart betrayed?
Are there songs that are not mournful elegies,
As a bird loses winged-flight when long chained?

Are there lips that speak what the heart feels,
As a blush bursts from the bosom of a maiden?
Are there actions that do what the will intends,
As leaps a beast on prey by hunger’s burden?

Oh dost Thou know afflictions of my world
Bereft of Thee, O my reluctant Beloved!