We are no more in the stillness of the night

To be a thought, was once a gift, but now

Your confessions of love seem much too trite.

Thus now these thoughts of love I don’t allow.

To be or not to be– just gone and dead

In life we die, alas, do we all live?

I think we not, for tears which been shed,

For lies which have been said, I can’t forgive.

The sun of the morning does rise with grace

Yet still nothing to see, nothing to feel,

There is mistake that none can erase.

All of this time I spent dreaming was real.

A once, the trumpet of the morn will crow

She shall have denied me ‘least thrice I know.