Could for my sun not a thing compensate,
for what ever is else is a thing irate.
There's not a ray of jubilance righteous
aside from mine but a hindrance, heinous.
A sky void of the star of mine
is a sky ablaze in wasted time,
For what is there if not my saint
but a nothingness or else a taint.
A dawn to dusk barren of my luster
can nothing be but a despaired old shutter.
For what is lord and does all splendor muster
but mine and be it not, only all the duskier.
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