Dusted off a yellow scrap From the depth of time, A line scribbled, Each letter dipped in raw blood, That's when I was mad. Infatuation, they call it, Feelings that pass of When maturity beheads emotions, Foolishness of youth Flies away on wings of calculations! After caressing the parchment, I put it back to its own time, Because it doesn't belong to now, The first flutter of heart, A flimsy fragile impractical thing, A wound I still carry, Falling and failing in first love!