Thin as a lath; eyes of the prairie,
Forsythia the colour of your crowning glory.

Mouth tastes like chalk; touches resemble to an art.
When will I realize, this creature's spell only comes out before dark?

Heed I will, halt I won't.
Your grace deserves an enticing adventure:
a dip into the pool of the lament ocean, a climb to the mountain of forgotten sorrows.

O', my sorcerer-- or are you not?
The final hour has come again.
Until then, a kiss for my chagrin will justify my yearning.
And not one second, I won't miss that tulip smile of yours.

But my sorcerer-- or are you not?
Don't let the night succumbs you to the oblivion,
don't let the cold bites your warmth to bits, don't let the wasp seizes the sweet taste of your honey dew.
For this is neither a goodbye, nor a calling.

This I promise.