Don't say that I don't know you,
That twenty- lettered name I know too well,
Eventhough I'm not the one
Who'll share it from you
Or present you its heir.
If you still doubt it,
Your middle has twelve,
Making it thirty two.

Do you know my chosen holiday?
It's the seventh day of the third month.
But does the fifteenth day of spring
Held significance to you?
Not if it is the twenty fourth of each month.

I know you even if I rest my sight-
The air tells me your presence,
For haven't the hands of your hair
held my fingers?
Or didn't I memorized
The scope of your waist
And the pattern followed by the hair
on your back and arms?
But do you remember the hands and eyes
That set the quest on them?

I only failed to learn
The legend of that scar on your forehead
And under it,
Or the fantasies kept by your palms.
How I crave to fasten myself to you
The way your specter clutch my chest
night and day.

Should I press what I beseech?
Do you sing your song to me?
Should I ask?
I only tell you
I know who gave that ring
Which binds you,
The same way I'm sure,
Once you step in,
I'll never drive you away.