This home, Made of fire, Burned by hands and remembrances Of something cold, though dear. Love was something I could tell Was something that could be away from Hell, From the grief, from the sting of pain, From the endless shame. Who are you, I ask To the reflection, before me? There are trees That grow, without their leaves Seemingly, in the drear of winter. They rise, without hands, They lift, not needing Of their lands. There is me, The man, without a crown, The man, who wears a frown, Crossed on his face, As he utters no sound. No love for the while, No love for a smile, As I am The wilted man Holding a rose, without petals. Come through me, World of no grief, For I want, a tear or two That only sleeps, when the sun rises. I want not To weep, in daylight, For I want To see, in the moonlight The woman who crossed faces Among infinite laces, Slept in silence, As I am buried, though restless.