The sun is gone and I mourne it's loss. The sun is gone roaming in other lands only peaking above the horizon to tease and remind us that its full glory shines elsewhere. Pale grows my cheek and cold, colder my kiss. I crave the sun's touch to wash away my sin--to illuminate the tapestry, the garden, so that I may know myself to be a child blessed on the pastoral plains. If the sun shines not upon me, how may I know my own beauty and yours? How shall I know the velvet darkness without the light to highlights its mountains?