My eyes are blind to thee;
my heart cold like a winter's morn.
Could condescension be
a merit of a scorn?
My ethereal pains scourge my heart;
thoughts of you lost in pass.
You beckon my soul since the start.
I might obey, but not surpass.
If I may live not this bird in caged,
who sings to please, dreams of free.
With my moments rot and aged,
and I still blind to see;
never am I myself,
but a caged bird on a shelf.