I don’t want to write about melancholy,
But my ink bleeds it out.
I’ve heard enough of these follies,
And I cannot fathom what kind of sadness is paramount.
It strikes me when I hear the news,
It just gets worse day by day.
Even my neighbor cries of abuse;
I would’ve been sad , but my lover has gone away.
I don’t know if to be sad for you,
Would redeem my sorrow;
But substituting pain with same wouldn’t be something new,
Therefore I seek refuge in the healing hands of tomorrow.
It is not in my nature to be indifferent,
Therefore I am forever condemned to this wound.
In this hope I’ve lived, in this hope I’ve dreamt,
That melancholy will not be the author of our doom.
Power, Poem, Prose 