When everything is done, the mornings are sad.

The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations.

That was the day without a dawn.

Cuando todo está hecho, las mañanas son tristes.

The faded photographs
The frames of broken glass
The shattered memories
Time will soon erase all these souvenirs
Falls from a thousand tears
But when I wake up you are never there.

Anyway, it's a lie when they say your eyes just blink awake. Bleary and cloudy, then as the starch gradually settles to the bottom and the skim rises to the top, at last my eyes wearily open. Mornings seem forced to me. So much sadness rises up, I can't bear it. I hate it, I really do. I'm an awful sight in the morning. My legs feel so exhausted that, already, I don't want to do a thing. I wonder if it's because I don't sleep well. It's a lie when they say you feel healthy in the morning. Mornings are grey. Always the same. Absolutely empty. Lying in bed each morning, I'm always so pessimistic. It's awful, really. All kinds of terrible regrets converge at once in my mind, and my heart stops up as I writhe in agony.
Mornings are torture.

"I have lost my dewdrop", cries the flower to the morning sky that lost all its stars

He who runs from God in the morning will scarcely find Him the rest of the day.

Think I'll miss you forever,
Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky.

At length the morn and cold indifference came.

Just a sort of unexplained sadness that comes each afternoon when the new day is gone forever and there’s nothing ahead but increasing darkness.

The dawn breaks everything, including the mood from the night before.

They lose the day in expectation of the night, and the night in fear of the dawn.

Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day.