Soft and weeping is the mourner’s
symphony a dirge of black
costumery soulless and hallow
I don my glass mask
Should you not dance? I fear your
happiness that you do not dance.
Heavy sighs do I bear
sorrow of your soul lessened by the
sad fate that you participate.
Should I oblige you by my happy?
Do I breathe my existence for your
ease? Am I but to serve your
conscience and neglect my own?
I fear you astray. Beware the
darken mis-steps of your path.
Come back, I pray. It is never too
late. Misgivings perchance happen;
save your fate.
I dance not you say. I sing not nor
do I laugh with abandon of one
enveloped in ignorance. That bliss
is no longer afforded me. Mine
eyes have seen what yours have not.
Do not misread my solemnity for an
ineptitude to gaiety. You see me
not, neither do you know me. For
had you but a grasp of life’s journey
you would withhold your tongue
and offered your hand.
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