77 (who is this captive that)
WHO IS THIS captive that grieves within thee
thirsting for light?
His lute is silent,
though life's breath is abroad in the air;
His eyes do not see,
though morning lights the sky.
Birds sing of a new awakening to the forest,
the joy of new life breaks out in the tints of flowers,
the night beyond the wall has vanished,
yet the smoking lamp is still burning in the cell.
Alas, why is there this separation
between thy home and the sky?