You,

       passed over

   by acquittal

            and absolution

                   of time,

everything listing

        but this:

            the sublime articulation

    of your longing.
    With little or no

chance of happiness,

          you sing,

      heart a severed wing

    or strangled

               underling.
You are always drunk

               on despair as pure

                       as night.

        You walk in air,

     fall through

               daylight.