Stare back at me, unfortunate emblem of the Night.

I would ask a favour of you: mock the sun for me.

Do what you have done for centuries, ages past,

Minutes and hours I cannot count.

Day and Night are not a perfect circle melting one into the other,

Rather, you are the corpse of your vital self,

And Night is the dried shell lying pale and still, grotesque and fair

On a cold slab of marble stabbed through and wounded with all the features of

Day,

Not in reality but recorded

Set down precisely so that we remember what was and is not and will not be.

You husk of beauty, splendid body of failure,

Continue to remind me of my inadequacy.

Let me never forget the futile mortality of Sunrise.

Then will I persist in my supplication that you would be as you are.