Houve uma época em que eu escrevia quatro, seis, oito estrofes de uma vez e nunca mais mexia naquela obra, mas não mais.
These feelings that I deemed eternal -
Their memory begins to fade
"My one true love", as once I called her
Yet somehow, nothing does remain?
I knew a part of me would die -
And so it happened, now it seems
So strange and empty in this room now
With her, but, alas, not that feel
No rapid heartbeat, louder breathing
No stupid smiles on my face...
With her, and trying to remember
The way I felt not (so?) long ago
Could it have faded - once, forever?
Like water on a sandy floor?