I grieve in the evening of my strife

For the man I could’ve been,

And for the woman I could’ve won,

And the life I could’ve then wifed for sure.

Instead what lies before me is the whore 

Of unfulfilled ability:

The incapacity I am clearly showing

To now in and bow out 

In the graceful way all proud must show.

And this evening I grieve so poor for sure 

Leaves me shortly for 

The dearth of hope:

The wreath of singular wretchedness:

The hearth that kept us warm some place –

Until the heath of high-

Blown love whisked 

All my thrive 


And so I grieve my passed and


And so I leave my 

Present alone;

And so I make of sadness


And so a blinding death 

Which comes








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