They whisper darkness, chill and sorrow
and break the faith for a soft tomorrow
they keep me off my grounded self
and chase me far to treacherous shelf
The night is spreading a leaden sheet
upon my mind so not to heed
the pleasant ballad ascending from
a lucent horizon when morrows come.
Is this murmur an absurd chimaera
a passing, fleeting, cumbersome era?
I have to curse the nighttime raven
and thank Aurora for daylight haven!