Where even the clowns cry
A somnolent past and my mind a cluster of thoughts And her name a dream that cinges upon my soul Here a chance spoilt, and another acquired, she has blessed me with a thousand trails and alas, a thousand failures What am I? A head and two hands, a heavy body dragged upon a friable earth And trailing behind a series of misfortunes, tending to no one but me alone? And she what a melody! What a wine, in her hair some flowers forever entwined And in a chair or on a stool My helpless mind, cursed throughout the hopeless time–that flies
Dismal, no amount of consolation should get me by, eyes with tears adorned, a cry heard from a mile away and blood seeping across the wooded lawns
And I am a clown, contortions of my face, remind me of who I am and what I am supposed to be That those who see me, and those who despise, hate nothing more than do reflect my sinful eyes
But what passion is it that growls more than a feind? That even animals, base, have more compassion than all my wistful visions?
I must be corrupt, in deed, a terrible abberation of the human psyche that anger in me pulsates like from fear a shivering child, and though the sky hangs deep, hot and cold, and the rain occasionally falls, the tears -that flow- down my face will forever crawl.