At a grey night through my window
I'm staring cheerless and hollow.
I don't do any work,
Vacuousness is my world.

From a dusty, stunted branch,
Flowers' tears are falling under.
I'm watching dumbly and cold,
Its orphan life doesn't touch me at all.

My soul is empty, desert, apathetic,
And as the years go by,
I have to leave my skylight
On a lonely and deserted night.

The death comes and says with mercy:
"Don't toil with your miserable life,
I can pat your heart placidly
So it will calmly lie by."

But I start to scream, wildly,
I don't want to be happy!
The only thing I need is life.
Why? No answer for this night.