MELANCHOLY

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.

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