Like a candle in a haze of white fog;
dew drops on my cheek and the sky is dark.
The clouds are heavy as they drift from the sun like pearls in a bowl of milk.
Somewhere the clock is counting, counting down;
All of the time seems to pass and nothing to be found. 
The forlorny firefly gazes onto the road;
Thirteen times onward and seven times back. 
Solitude is a place to find.