It's night once more within my feeble heart
And, feeble minded, I think back again
To what there was, at least on my own part
Not what I said, love mine, but that fold ten.
You left, and left it all behind, you think;
But do you dream it all comes back sometimes?
And thus awaken, picturing the brink
You stand on, as you try to cheat the tides?
Since long we haven't spoken, not and naught,
To say I do not miss you? How I would...
But would you say that we have fought, or wrought
A dream we couldn't, even though we could?
Since long you haven't held me in your arms;
And, when you did, what was it that you felt?
What I felt? It was all your soul, all charms
You time again have said there have not dwelt.
I saw you yesterday. I think I did.
Or had my soul deceived my eyes again?
You saw me not. You wouldn't. Yet I hid
As though you'd hurt me then, love mine, fold ten.
Do you remember me, at least, at all, somehow?
Or am I now to you no more than dead?
Is it, perhaps, that you do not allow
Yourself to think of it? That it you dread?
What is it, that repels your poor, sad heart?
That makes you cross your chest and say, 'Amen'?
What there once was, at least on my own part,
Not what I said, love mine, but that fold ten?
And could that be so awful, that, indeed,
You choose to think of 'us' not once, again?
What was there once, for 'was' we have agreed,
Love mine? Was it my soul, or that fold ten?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.