All the photographs dearest to me;
I shall burn all of them
If somehow within my heart
Your fleeting memory I could hold
If somehow I get to behold
Scalding epistles; pixels from the past
Narrating what is better if not told
Of how the sun set too fast
And how the dreadful night unfolds
Of the ruined castle of love
Which once in its shy might did
Our throne of love uphold.