He lives in the shadow, for in the light he sees his face;
He cries in the rain, lest he should see his tears;
He speaks with the thunder, for the thunder kills his voice;
He looks at the lightning, but he cannot utter words.
When the wind whistles in the morning, he sleeps and does not feel;
When he wakes to a new light, he forgets his happy dreams;
For he lives in the shadows, and he has not learnt to live;
He gropes for an answer to questions he never gives;
He cannot follow where his soul each day strays;
He cannot feel his heart as its hopes wash away.
So on his bed he lies, with Misfortune in his arms:
She puts her hands on his eyes by night as by day;
Wraps his body in her mantle lest he feel the air;
And keeps him in her room, where no one comes and no one stares.