my work has not been in the sunlight hours
instead to dig in the mines, in punctuated darkness
wondering about the fantastic luck of us all
now factored into every of our equations
i look for the rarest rose, that blooms only at night
my collection of flowers have long since withered
as i dream and am frightened of its brilliance
for time is digging me out of the earthly depths
and i must prepare to live again among mortals
wondering about the fantastic luck of us all
the glance of which once made me mad
the thought of which now heals my frailty