Below the scene that screams sweet serenity,
I conjure the image that used to be you.
On the wings of black night behind closed eyes,
the fool quenches his thirst with Cupid’s tears.
…and dreams become footsteps in yesterday’s sand,
a chalice stained by hands forgetting what they were…
Forgetting not, the fool waits to drink again;
with the chalice cleaned, he thinks of the future.