To where do you run, my dear
when all is said and done.
To where do your manful thoughts roam,
Is it to your lions den of greed? Or the pleasant shoal of fun?
Or perhaps the tropical forest of mating?
Yes, love, this is where your hungers are calculating.
Ah, but there lies a dearest freshness in your sigh and pant,
which gives me glorious hope.
Hope, which has begun to look like the Promise Land.
As you fire questions at me more and more,
I have faith that you will see.
See my fire that burns for you,
and the fire that blazes in you for me.
Because when the curtains draw, my dear
It seems we are all hurtling toward the end.
I swear by then we shall have joined hands; there will be nothing left to fear.