Why so Serious...
i am like a remnant of a cloud of the autumn, unlessly roamong in the sky, o my sun ever glorious, thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light and thus i count months and years separated from thee.
if this be thee wish n this be thee play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton winds and spread it in varied wonders.
and again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, i shall melt and vanish away in the dark,
or it may be in a smile of the white morning in a coolness of purity transparent.