He is standing somewhere there without her...
Nothing moves around him, if it did he couldn't bear.
Life seems always tempting, what a wasting!
He is living somewhere there in the cold, in the rain, raving...
Is she really anywhere? Does she exist? He forgets.
Is she sad? Perhaps dead? Dying always throws its nets.
She's his love. She always was, when he was dreaming.
When his feet in the woods , in the mist, were swimming.
She was always his dear wife, when 't was raining.
But reality wasn't for him so sustaining, he is waving...
She only met him in the past... Is she a mem'ry?
He thought never he'd forget, who she existed, she's his fairy
although time covers her face under a thick layer of dust.
Anyway his mind was never something he could trust...
Why does she weep anytime they meet in his dream?
Why is she whispering, he stabbed her in the heart, his sunbeam?
Why is she hiding so much deep, when dark falls on the hills?
Why are they so away and so near, while her kissing his soul heals?
Why does he still loves her? Is she real?
As in vain he wonders, this is something he feels still:
She's the unknown lake with the obscene myst'ry in its depth.
She's the infinite sky which when he looks at, he continues to lengthen his life's length.
