What is the day, but a brief release,
From the night's obliterating sigh?
A high walled, stony, prison yard,
Roofed in by a pallid sky?
Where the prisoner walks, unwatched,
Alone, dreading the dusk drawing in;
The slamming of that heavy door,
And the solitary shutting in.
The Judge, (who?), oh, I forget the name-
"Sentence? For what crime?"
"Loving too much, it says here, my Lord."
"Ha! Life! Without limit of time!"
"These fools must learn by their mistakes;
Ignorance of the Law is no defence.
I'll set an example to them all.
Send him down. Love? A pretence!"
No, my Lord, you've got that wrong.
Love's an impertinence.
++
His life on licence, but he nothing lacks,
For we live in enlightened times;
But what wouldn't he give, just once, that man,
To even partially comprehend his crimes?
The trial? The Trial? Don't make me laugh!
In that event he took no part.
It was conducted in absentia,
The caprice of an unformed heart.
So now he walks alone, and wonders,
And fears the fading of the light;
While his accuser, indignantly self-justified,
Sails on, unscathed, careless of his plight.
The fettered hours chafe endlessly away,
Down to the smallest speck of dust;
And the prisoner's dull routine sets in,
As he knows it inevitably must.
For there's a long, long way to go;
Fourteen by twelve, pace it out, my boy.
Love's a crime, and now you know,
So start paying for your joy.
