Sparrow, delight of my girl,
with whom she is accustomed to play,
whom she is accustomed to hold in the fold of her dress,
for whom, seeking rapaciously, she is accustomed to give her fingertip and to urge sharp bites,
when it is pleasing for me to make some loving joke for my shining desire,
and a solace of her sorrow,
I believe, so that her so heavy passion may grow quiet.
If only I were able to play with you yourself,
and to lift the doleful woes of your soul!

It is as pleasing to me as they say that the golden apple was to the swift girl,
which unbound her girdle, having been fastened for a long time.

Hello.

S'been a while, huh?

I've been missing that,
Those letters you wrote,
The lipstick stains stretching across the paper.

Red was never your colour, love.

You'd never wear anything but black,
Unless they'd make a darker colour.

You and your punk rock.

It wouldn't be wrong to say I miss it.

But does missing you make a difference,
In you and I?

Do we change from who we are,
To miss the person we once had?

The light to our dark?

Does the coin suddenly have two sides,
When it's been polished again?

You never liked my cryptic words,
And I hated your honeyed poison.

But I could never turn away,
From the part of you,
That did not speak.

I could never stop looking,
At your black and blue,
At your simple formula,
At your sun-kissed smile,
Nor at your cut-up honour,
Your tragic vanity,
And your stomped-upon pride.

And you could not forget about my words,
Because even the ones you don't understand,
They ring true,
And they ring loud.

You do not lie in words,
But I live in words.