Sitting in front of the vintage girandole that undermines your beauty,
Running that oak-carved brush through your disheveled hair,
when you look out of your half lift window at the starry night,
carving out imaginary crimson clouds out of nowhere,
I often imagine flying by,
behind the dark of every passionate night
Your eyes make love with, as you look.

standing up slowly with your carelessly draped night-gown,
walking up to the newly white-washed window pane,
when you pull down those calico curtains slowly,
the innocently playful breeze kissing u for the last time,
I often imagine being a night cloud,
seeing you beautiful as always......
your locks flowing all over your freshly nurtured cheeks,
and you desperately trying to hold them back with a smile!