It's half past eleven, he's bound to leave, She's holding back tears, she whispers: "just stay"; He cannot reveal any reason to grieve And says: "I'll be back, I will see you some day". Some day in Novemer is meant to be spring That comes after February's damn thirtieth night, When fantasy birds are encouraged to sing In violet rays of the navy blue light. ...Her soft gentle voice is no longer that sweet, Her mirror reflects such a vague silhouette, Not able to simply get back on her feet, She spends every day half-awake in her bed. And when he recalls her in April or May, He'll only discover a cold empty room. The neighbors will frown and tell him the way To where an orchid will wilt by a tomb.
