Unloved and made for pain,
Here is me, made for the world to see,
What is death with a breath?
What is love without the sigh?
With a face once so full of gold,
And no more beauty to behold,
Angel wings burned,
A life upturned,
Like mine,
And I fell upon a thorn.
Sympathy is the reward of the overthrown,
Stepped down to meet a nation of dust.
Empathy is my very foundation,
Where rust and floods are the foundations to my home.
I am made trivial, and swollen,
To the proverbs of a desperate age.
You drive the earth forward
With your gentle push.
You make my lips turn upward,
With your frugal song.
A song of light and plight,
A song that cries to open fields.
I am lifted by love and its grace,
Raised by age and despaired by loss,
What has become of me,
Upon this lonely sea?
Oh, love, without the breath, it is empty.
Without the death, we are empty.
Without the protection, we are frail,
Frail and alone.
Modern Romanticism 