Even though, perhaps, tomorrow,
As a concerto of Violins is departing along the clock,
My green leaves will shine away under any morning's sun.
My love will be delicate, sweet, like a red apple,
While I, walking back and forth, with my fallen arms in this dimly
Room that beyond my eyes I behold the new passion,
A story shattered by freighted kisses, will born.
Who, now, even as I spoke I am a man in the stream,
Faintly gently to sand, could have thought
The day is all free along the meadow's line?
Shall be another date for tomorrow?