Cobbled stones, not dust. br br So acute was my loneliness that dream I must. br Escapism was a flight from dreary realism. br . br If roam I must, if chains I must break br Alone, in this pebble-strewn destiny br My happiness I must fake. br . br So acute was my loneliness that home was far br Too far; too far and distant my loved ones and my thoughts br That in that black cosmic wilderness even the North Star br Seemed close enough to touch. That even my words br Seemed transparent and tinted with Orientalism br . br So distant and cold, so empty my worlds. br So acute was my loneliness even the poems would not come br The words fled, the streets wet, a spectre I had become br My memories tinged with the bitter things I had done. br . br All alone. When dawns touched my lids after fitful sleep br I had resolved never, never to weep br However deep the pain. However acute the pain br The sun would shine tomorrow and I would become myself again. br .