In the days of my time, not I or any other eyes have understood what
is profoundly written in my mind.

As I wave my hands in bliss to you
to race quicker than the sheep’s on high spring mountains…

The bland atmosphere passes me, and the presence I have searched for found me.

The chills in my spine declare love for the first stage, and I feel like subsiding.

No woman or man could cuddle my hand and call it lovely.

As I decrease to the grim floor, I hear you more…

Call for me I say without speaking my way, I hope that your ears ring as loud and spin my way to see me.

My suppression of notes flail on the grim floor as I once recalled, your ears picked up the sound…

You run to calm this incompetent one and reach out a hand to touch my frozen bones.

I am deeper than shy, black than night, and night isn't even close to compare.

You have my notes in a basket, that basket of hands gripping.

Searching for my eyes, the crisp apple is spinning.