I sit inside a tower, writing tall tales at night
Some wither at the beginning,
Some doom with an end in sight.
What I can’t seem to fathom is,
What’s a better enigma to write on—
Pining, O' ye lighthouse, in solace;
Or, to have no hope to embrace you in daylight.
So I painstakingly sit, inside this tower,
In its hollow darkness, I write,
About the light, I see outside,
On the freezing grasslands of solitude,
About the light, I see in you,
About how I clamor the heavens to bring it back
Back to me —
Unleashing a dose of unresolved yearnings,
And a morsel of sacred anguish,
I raise my glass to clink inside a tower,
A tower made of gold and burgeoning noise,
Raising — to a heart that clamors,
Like a thousand horses’ hooves,
Such that, with every clink, an echo resonates.
Singing honeyed tones on —
How it must be to cherish you from distance, each day
How enthralling it must be, to celebrate you, each night.
So I sit inside a dimly lit tower, writing tall tales,
About this heavenly light.