And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
thoughts of light
lead to a loss of sight
blinded by the wants
of a future out of reach
yearning witch,
outstretched hands
for the sands
of a time
where she sings with the chime
of the bells
and not farewells
until then comes
she cries tears of green absinthe,
head adorned with a crown of violet hyacinth
and hopes her tears don't turn her numb
to the passage of time
when the bell tower sings its chime