Give me back, give back to me, my affections.
I had planted the kisses on melting lamps.
The dark tunnel goes to a lake
for a rendezvous with pink death
on white lips of cinders.
Such agony of wintering tree.
Not a single bird on the branches
to pump the green blood for the wheels of time.
The speeding moon was in hurry,
to question the oppressed night.
Why the days were becoming shorter and shorter?
