She isn’t mine. I am alone in love.
Inside my mind and soul, I moan in love.
The sound is pearly shell. The sound is slight,
only a cell of sound, a stone in love.
My flower bed so lavishly in bloom,
my elm tree’s swelling leaves, my own in love.
Those fragile fantasies of love I drew
erased in anguish, overthrown in love.
She hasn’t ears and eyes for this, old fool.
Impossible, your monotone in love.
Just face it, Mary, time is running short.
Love less, or you will die alone in love.