I hear words, lovely words
But they are falsities
When they speak, it is
Not to me but to a fantasy
An illusion...
Yet I can't write poetry
It is a falsity when I call myself
A poet
And all the eventide I keep these words
In my heart; a song played on the lute
Of the winds, a whisper echoed by the sea
These are your words to me....
Though they are only imagined.
Your love to me is a fantasy
My image to you is a falsity
How then could these be tokens
of pyrite?