The silent conversations in our letters
are cradled by the lovely, lonesome breezes of  the spring.
They travel just a little beyond  the horizon.
And, settle into the depths of the waveless oceans.

Night after night, they make a call.
Come hither, friend! Rescue us all.

When the slightest puff of wind brushes away
the strands of your dark, raven hair from your creased forehead.
Do not close the windows.

When the hushed whispers tickle your ears
Do not dismiss them as just another noise.

Night after night, they make a call.
Come hither, friend! Rescue us all.

They are treasures buried in coffers of the past.
They are gold, and they glitter.
They are dreams of a distant future,
Vague and infinite.

So, when you wake up in middle of the night
from the visions in your deep sleep.
Do not dismiss them as just another nightmare.

They are like the carols of Christmas, poetry of the past.
They are musings of a lovely, lonesome heart.
Do not dismiss them as just another prose.

*Night after night, they make a call.
Come hither, friend! Rescue us all.