O sorrow is like endless, autumn rain that pours
Into one's heart and soul. It makes our precious thoughts
Grey and slow. It stifles all creative flowers.
It cruelly robs us of our inner most powers.
Yet I accept that it's a vital part of me.
For light has no meaning without darkness it seems.
Life's myriad textures contain colour and shade.
Sorrow is a wintry song that will never fade.
It is a discordant note that mocks summery joys.
It provides a stark beauty to the poet's voice.
It adds a certain weight to nebulous notions,
And imbues reasoning, with depth of emotion.
Accompanying drawing: Sorrow (1882)by Vincent van Gogh,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem