You are lamenting love that left one day
for the world of the impossible.

It was a dream, but is there anything
except illusion and make-believe anyway?

Our life is a summer cloud’s thick shade.

You lament love’s autumn folds,
and the division of all we shared.

Who said anything lasts?  Hopes melt
and a sole question remains: Why enter my life

if dreams only turn to sand,
heat-haze blurring into heat-haze?