void of all its loveliness,
I am not capable of believing,
there once grew roses in the now barren ground.
So it is also, when I see the sun,
peering through at me on such a winter's day.
it is hard from me to accept the fact,
that to this desolate prison I am bound.
Could I just once more walk, alone,
among the grassy open meadows,
rejoice in dew-tipped blossoms that glitter serenely,
with morning's golden flecks.
Yet here I remain trapped,
of some other vagabond,
and his isolated treks.