What is this fear,

That grips, and rips, and strips me?

From where was it born?

And to where does it go?

This universe of unease,

These fleas that bite at my well-being,

Jealous of my heart’s rest.

 

Why do you visit me again and again?

Can I have no peace?

Must I forever look for the sharpened splinter,

The shard of imaginary glass,

That amongst the wondrous stained glass window of heaven complete,

Would pierce me,

And blind me thus?