The visions of night have all wasted away;
I’ve opened my eyes to a vagabond day:
maniacal soul, despised by the light– 
a martyr in solitude, crying for night.

 

The artist beside me, creating at will –
so little she knows of the visions she’ll fill
when I have retreated to empty delight–
a martyr in solitude, crying for night.

 

The hare to the trap and the moth to the flame,
again and again it will turn out the same,
try as I will, with all of my might– 
a martyr in solitude, crying for night.

 

In scraping the dregs of my life’s only dream,
pathetically cringing from terrors unseen,
and sucking the life from the waning starlight–
a martyr in solitude, crying for night.