Where are the mist gone?
Where are the temperate resting?
Where did the hours fall?
Why fall into disappearance now, and not then?
Where was the sight then when beauty unraveled and was available?

They graves upon a dark mountain.
Not of blackness you see,
But of sweet chocolate and glowing skin of tenderness.
They have rest upon the dark cheeks.
Not of darkness you see,
But of softness and amiable cheeks.
They have been shortsightedness,
Not of you but of me.

It is like a river that runs from the nose of a highness peak,
Falling down like a waterfall of silver lining that create ripples of smile and series of laughter.
This is not a mountain of rocks,
It is a mountain of flesh.
This is not a mountain of dried leaves and dead plants,
It is a mountain of a living heart upon a consumed soul.
It is love.
It is Sholaye's.

Her smiles run through the sea and cause the ocean to fall heavy.
Her dimples is less seen yet drinks the ocean dry.
Her eyes are reflection of the best things that life can give...
A momentum of peace,
A monument of joy and laughter,
A mortgage of what true love is.
It doesn't cry, yet a droplet of tear is carried upon a chariot.

Hola, did I mention her voice?
It doesn't yell, yet it echoes across the valleys.
It doesn't sing, yet everything that falls to her sound dances.
I was blind before, but now I can see.
But what do I see?
A sense of emotion perhaps... Or a fence of what seemed to be loved?

I can only wait at the sideline...
But upon a thousand dreams, I will walk through the shores with you.
I can only have a glimpse of your affections...
But upon a thousand desires, it is most cherished.

Aye, the mist are here.
The temperate aren't resting,
But the sun is rising.
And my sight have caught its beauty.