O Day,
When shall you come,
When the strikes of red upon accursed sheets
shall instead of woe bring joy?
When lingering dread be replaced with
long-desired contentment?

O Day,
What must one do for your peaceful bliss,
and not your merciless sting?
For one not to know deep regret,
of the wasted hours of the night?

O Day,
When will you come that I do not
desire for your end?
When I shall not sit in stupor
surrounded by a relentless drone?

And yet, O Day,
The strikes of red upon accursed sheets
bring pangs of shame, not bursts of pride,
As I sit in my chair amongst
weary faces with unmoving eyes.

And now, O Day,
I know well
that in the ways I desire,
you shall not come.