I loved a dreamer this morning,

His dark hair, and the darkness of his brows,

His dark eyes, and the darkness of his visage,

Though pale, as pale as the palest spring,

I loved that dreamer on this, the haziest of mornings!

 

I loved a dreamer this morning,

His loneliness, and his longings,

His tape player recordings,

Though short they were, as short as the shortest spring,

I loved that dreamer on this, the haziest of mornings!

 

I loved a dreamer this morning,

His velvet pants, and the velvet on his jacket,

The pastel on his hands tucked in his pockets,

Though crestfallen, and melancholy,

I loved that dreamer on this, the haziest of mornings!

My notebook smells of lavender,

here, spring still is present in the cherry blossoms and the dandelions,

serenaded by bees and butterflies,

sad winds, and skies of cloud.

​

My notebook smells of lavender.

It does not care about my silence and solitude,

here, the afternoon fills my room with birdsongs and longing,

longing, longing.

​

My notebook smells of lavender.

Like a kid with stone-filled pockets, I feel I have the universe in mine;

who are you, my love?

What lies under the form of your smile?

Is it alone, as alone is mine?