Can you call out to the night
in a voice that
reminds me of innocent days?
Where often I
appreciated the sunlight's grin
as likewise I did your own, and exclaimed
my surprise at the late evening's
chill, a breeze milder, really,
than any touch of hands
that knowingly await
their bodies' compromise.

I sing of a frankness lightened by
a cherished voice's warm reprieve
which follows in tuneful  
adept time.

Mournful as that time without you
being spent half in memory
And yet still
courting bliss.

These petals that transfix
the passagemakers of this city
when falling they touch ground
markers of these
Labrythhine stowaway quarters
Petals that are eyes open on a map
offering views restricted by
Their very habit
of spreading across.

These watching fellows are not
but could be
cherry blossoms whose
sudden appearance
wakes up students
on elevated trams
They are not
the spires of those finest, sun cracked churches
but they could induce the
same inspiring awe as though
they were crystallised, white on black,
boughs that made the roses of this land
appear washed out
like bleached hair
after a shower.

A downpour begins, and as
gracefully passes over
by you turning toward
our balcony window
as if hearing the songs of
The night call back to you.

Calling all the city's secrets
only rumours
Simply songs for worrying Lovers
Lovers who should trouble only to remember songs
and let voices, floating rise
Above.