"At seventeen I died, spoony."
I'm single, with you, my dear friend,
free from trivial, ethical standard:
I can see your face pale, beardless,
between pale white flowers; am
and redeems, without any reservation,
to my delight and charm, later.
Excited, without the vanity of grieving,
a moderate enthusiasm, essential,
a lot of excitement in the crystallization
and the short, kills, is wilting.
In the farewell kiss, without being seen.
Not even met you, yet your body
Now me is, though lost, eternal.
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