The box that pumps my blood has four,
Four chambers,
One holds all the light and airy facts of love along with the dark and heavy,
Another holds my memories,
The third and fourth are queer indeed, I never know what in them I’ll find,
Whether they’ll be full or empty.
The third is reserved for what I give to others,
The fourth for what I get.
The first and second display my lifetime,
The third and fourth: a day.