Veil the haunting voices in my nightmare. The time command me to march forward. It seems I have no leisure to look at the sky and admire the shape of the crescent moon. The night is too cold. The hours are too short. And the angels have hibernated in the womb of paradise. It seems trees have grown above them and the time have passed them. They can no longer carry my message to whatever God it may be.
Thus, in the winter of the night, I implore the guardian of my soul to shield my feeble self. I mustn't relent to these voices. For the night is short and the days are long even in the winter. Yes, my love, you must endure.
Yours even as I fear to be.