One day, I'll write my last poem,
and it'll be about you,
about how the gold and silver,
and entire jewels of the world,
were rubble and dust in front of you,
about how the Moonlight was,
dim and dusky as compared to your eyes,
about how the path you walk on,
turns into spring,
about how the buds that never bloomed,
turned into flowers with your smile,
about how the man who died of poison,...