est-il permis?

never withheld nor yet too freely lent
we ask our masters to grant us one boon
allowing us to dance beneath the moon
before we are to meaner tasks on sent
the one who bids us toil is no kind gent
we find ourselves reaching old age too soon
with sun still hardly fallen from the noon
the hands are weak and the back is long bent
now what we want is not within your gift
but still we have to beg and wail and plead
in hope that miracles may still occur
between our worlds there's a gigantic rift
hardly a one may pass between at need
and ever closer comes the final whirr