Whatever will ever Come of you In the years that follow? Your eyes seat themselves on the edges Of your withdrawn eyelids, Leaned back from the bleak irises, While falling rain, As raining tresses of chestnut Merge themselves in contrast To your porcelain skin. Your eyes seat themselves on that edge, Never to look upwards, Nor downwards, Neither to Heaven nor to Hell, Though straight ahead, As I wonder to the longing of you For another smile to be seen nesting On this time The edge of a set of ruby lips, Never to depart. What loyalty I ever sprung upon you In your clashing winter Against the dark tresses above the temple of worship That is your head. Let watchful lights Watch over you, The lighthouse has become your home. It shall ignite your path Beneath your delicate feet. You could have life, Not ever to be dissolved. Not ever to be dissolved Like the snow behind you, on the cold road.