Modern Romanticism

Tell me your hour

When to meet, by a frozen stream,

That I may lick the tears

That have become as often as the night

Is to you, beyond the realization of the sun

That could warm you,

Beyond the you

That does not want to smile.

I love

Without sickness to my words,

For my confusion has not welcomed itself

Upon all I feel,

In all I steal

Of a heart that is enveloped in the cloak of darkness.