In View of the Mountain Afar, You are But a Fleeting Shadow Painting

That day in the fickle warmth of March, The incessant winter rain had finally awakened Scotland's lands. In haste, my countenance chased the twilight reflected on the window sill. With a weary smile, dusk toyed with the light, I yearned to summon the absconded drowsiness with an amber-hued cello. I inhaled the air, laden with pine needles on the freshly trimmed grass. In the evening’s veil, only silence was the lengthy reply. Behind the glass sat you, who could not even embrace with my gaze, Leaning against the faded dark wallpaper. Which disguise of the heart does not become futile? — Fearful of secretly altering fate, I masked my longing as pleasantries. A heart festooned with thorns, Is but faced with your smile that's a step away. Yet, the surging waves of grass I presumed halted in the countable yesterdays. Your trace vanished, The enchanting sound ceased. See you, Only in the profound depths of a dream's spectral retreat. Every restless note circles around you, Every lingering rhythm heads towards you. And no longer will I guess the willow leaves in the night breeze. The cello in my hand was picked up and laid down: I know, The music cannot erase the sorrow, — It only sighs on behalf of others. Dusk has played the last thread of light. Just so, and nothing more.