How strange is it, cruel Fate,
that the stories you write for me
never end as poetically
As the ones, I have written for you.

I may not be Icarus, but I know
what it feels like to be consumed.
Though I am sure that he once loved
the sun too, before you penned his poem.

Spring snow does not endure,
it is not in its nature to stay,
just like Icarus and
just like me.