It cries to the dawning,

To the light of the storm.

It cries out to the flesh,

Of which was once mourned.

The cries, oh the cries,

How feebly they squall.

Encased in a box,

A wall ever so small.

The light knows not 

Of what is to be seen,

In the box of the sorrows, 

In the box of the screams.

Of boundless measures, 

But of limited thought.

A space so small,

Yet a span so broad.

Physical is not,

of what limits behold.

Conceptual, it is, 

of which man cannot thole.