The Love is just a memory,
Of the faint breeze here and a strong wind there.
The Love has matured.
Like the age of the wine, still bitter but fine.
The Love has changed its colour.
Like the foliage of the autumn and the soil of the ocean.
The Lover hitherto, breathes.
Like a flower on the cactus, withering and yet anxious.
The Love reminds of glory.
Like the tiara atop the queens, more settled than it gleams.
The Love plays in a song.
From the dead passing on.
The Love, like a cinnamon.
Sweet is it's smell.
For those who conquer it, call it "mine".
The ones who conjure it up, make a rhyme.
Of the faint breeze here and a strong wind there.
The Love has matured.
Like the age of the wine, still bitter but fine.
The Love has changed its colour.
Like the foliage of the autumn and the soil of the ocean.
The Lover hitherto, breathes.
Like a flower on the cactus, withering and yet anxious.
The Love reminds of glory.
Like the tiara atop the queens, more settled than it gleams.
The Love plays in a song.
From the dead passing on.
The Love, like a cinnamon.
Sweet is it's smell.
For those who conquer it, call it "mine".
The ones who conjure it up, make a rhyme.
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