The reflection of yesterday's–
Wistful for another foggy daze.
Here, a flower of dawn
Will find an etching
Of dew of the morn.
The future of a dreamer,
Yonder, hopefully lying–
To himself, oh Sinner!
Will be still dreaming
A lovely nightmare.
Thus will the Fates scheme
To lull us into deadly comfort;
The first dawn's dream,
A broken attempt to ease the hurt;
Binding as a witch's hymn.
And your pillows are relieved;
You'll hear them sighing;
Under all the tears that have grieved,
And are slowly dying,
On the satin covers;
Even as you are weaving
A whole day of grand endeavours.
Oh remember them, wretched soul!
For soon night shall be returning;
And once more Misery will take his toll.
For now be soothed as the flower of dawn,
On whom lies the etching;
Etched by the cold fingers of morn.