We are no more in the stillness of the night
To be a thought, was once a gift, but now
Your confessions of love seem much too trite.
Thus now these thoughts of love I don’t allow.
To be or not to be– just gone and dead
In life we die, alas, do we all live?
I think we not, for tears which been shed,
For lies which have been said, I can’t forgive.
The sun of the morning does rise with grace
Yet still nothing to see, nothing to feel,
There is mistake that none can erase.
All of this time I spent dreaming was real.
A once, the trumpet of the morn will crow
She shall have denied me ‘least thrice I know.