In my entire existence there has been lament,
without a single regret... a pitch-black disconsolation.
The innocence and promise of my dreams
is found in the sanctity of my loneliest days.

Often the obstacle of doubt crosses my course. 
I withdraw into myself and forge silently past, 
as though parallel to a fog-shrouded river,
whose flood banks I have not the gallantry to measure.

Then a sadness sinks upon me, 
somber as the darkness of the last summer night
when stars flicker on and off... only now and then.

My hand and my heart then clumsily reach out for love,
because I want so much, and pray to hear, 
words I cannot find.