You die every day, like this: you choose a life of slow
Death: through long nights, you burn away
Like the slowly fading lamp
Mourning some sombre memory,
Does it matter to know, you love me?

The mist dripping from the roof and the slow
Wind of the deep nights play to the dirge
Of a buried life, buried behind
Walls of smoke, unfathomed crypts,
Does it matter to know, you love me?

You sit for hours like this, silent like the moon
On an unwavering pond on a windless
Night, your eyes express so much,
But say nothing, like a valley of flowers
On a silent summer afternoon:

Does it matter to know, you love me?