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Daylight's pretence illumine darkened plains
with sole glimmers divided in the skies;
As I, a prisoner behind these panes,
gaze with a wishful heart and wistful eyes.
The hurdle lies not in hills to travel
nor in time's distance; 'tis diminutive.
For the heavens' hold is hardly brittle
in a battle, for these bright lights to leave.
O, but I fall; buoyant beneath its glow
or its slightest sign, by a graceful glance
Breath sojourns for a second, but even so
it ends, 'tis but the power of perchance.
So long this paints her smile, mine too it keeps,
with wistful eyes, my wishful heart that weeps.