Sadness in Exile
All sides entrap fragility,
There embrace is slate grey,
In seasons which spare the light,
My sadness of exile.
The walls I built are my own folly,
I built them round my soul,
They shut out hope and striving,
Which they stifle in the long days of bare branches.
The grey walls taunt me,
Callous in their accusation,
They are blank pages in a diary,
Hiding, my soul faces inward.
At times, in lilac spring,
Bloom drops onto sunlit grey,
And the emptiness is warmed,
Born of morning light, grey is benign.
Lit so faintly, there is a seed,
Showing me the limestone massifs,
In travels past, a new stanza,
Hope stirs the new forest leaves.
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