I write of passion, and of particles of dust,
Which turn, by reasonable magic, into snow.
I write of love, and of a breeze of lust,
Which to a tempest in my eyes would grow.

I look into thy eyes, I see the leafs
Of autumn, and of winter and of spring.
Inside your soul they're curled.  My reason leaves
To trust the burst that summer's heat would bring.

By trusting ardor rather than the thought,
By saying what I should have left unspoken,
I've made the choice that I have always sought.
I've thrown the lid away, it lies now broken.

What could you say to me?  Thy choice is also sealed.
But unlike yours, my heart has been revealed.