Give me back,
me back, 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?