I feel soft wind, tickling my face,
as if your finger's tender touch runs through my skin,
relieving fears and worries
and thoughts, troubled much.
I leave them all there,
where i fell,
in the dungeons of despair.
Tell me not of tomorrow,
not of labour.
Better talk over yeaterday's trifle,
even there is no time to spare.
Can we not live for the others,
not follow dead men's trail?
Live and die for simple things,
for the dawn, and night
and trivial dreams?