And as we look again into our lover’s eyes,
What is there was not before,
Having evolved into a different glance
Of recycled matter composed,
Constancy being a word that lures us
Into our trance or cradled trap
For we were raised with it,
As raised we were by many words
Invented before our birth,
Even if speechless we are not mute.
That is why, dear friend, why
Our photograph is a stagnant lie,
And a bird's song is silence being sung.
