The Sky is Crying

On a scorching summer’s day,

I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.

Without wasting in dismay,

I reached my torrid moor.

Away from the maddening city lights,

Where everyone finds their graves, one at a time.
I set out to build a wall,
Where all was pure, in my city of gold.

Night by night my walls grew ,

Enclosing the pure , detesting the obscure.

Moonlight to the sun tearing cathartic darkness,

My walls grew into a steady lair.

And then came the night of the empyrean rumble,

And the moor on that night did shed summer.

The mason did embrace the crying sky,

As moonlight bled through the moor .

And alas, among all these walls , there was no roof,

Only a cover from the world , not the sky above.

And the sky cried and the rain bled,

And the sun opened her hair in elegant shafts of morning light.

And I , the lonely mason knew this after the rainy respite,

These walls have to be built without the roof.

Enclosing the pure, detesting the obscure,

But ever welcoming the sky’s tears upon my moor.