How many hours Can float by Without the sight of each delicate stream Of joyful glee? A wilderness in your eyes, I was lost in Upon those hazy summers, Brought down in the currents Of two million tears. How many tears of my own Can float by Without any worth for why I cry In the dirt, For a pain, that does not stain Me, for any reason of what I see, Being only ever me, not ever her? There were surroundings Engraved in the dirt, Tears that fell like storming droplets From a bottomless Heaven. My tears do not create puddles, Nor do they create the marks upon my garments, Nor of my hands Without the recognition of her. Features of pain Are no longer in my name, Without a face to cry for, As this countenance of mine Will be nothing to die for, Nothing to strive for To uplift for a moment in straining joy.