To Depression

As the rosy fingers of gold-bedecked dawn
Tear the curtain of darkness each morn,
As the sun with its swords of radiant light
Shatters the shield of gloomy night,
As birds with their songs pierce the silence of fears,
As tears wash away the poison of years,

I arise, foul fiend, and shake off your yoke,
And defy him who sent you, returning the stroke!
I mock you, poor figure, for arms you have none –
My master has spoiled you and left you not one;
Your weapons he's taken and given to me –
Deceiver, deceive not yourself – but flee!

June 1993