My love has changed. I know you feel
upset about the situation:
The crescent's sweeper couldn't spill
the pools of lyrical creation.
Upset, but taking in good part
the star that fell upon your brows,
you spilt you heart about the house
but there's no house in your heart.
The one you waited for to greet
has passed your shelter like a cynic.
My friend, whomever did you gild
the key for with your singing lyric?
You'll never versify the sun
and never see the Heaven's bound.
Just like a mill that flaps its fan
but cannot tear off the ground.