In the name of thee, all-enshrouding fog,
In whose presence a hue of regret pour out their transient accord, as if hoping to awaken to a calling that is known only by your mind's eye. That emotional contrast which is felt - and upon a sudden blink, with no moment given to comprehend it - is in itself a reverie yearning to be heard... of course, with caution exercised diligently. It is difficult to consider one's soul to be free from melancholia - not unless one is a ghost, which is the case with all of us.
Maiden, whose smile is a dream that has been carved by the Almighty... how often, I wonder, have I thought about the closure you provided me whenever I would think about that fine silhouette that was your smile, my dear. It is like snowflakes perched upon winter leaves - tender, gentle, fragile, and a pleasure for the eyes. Melancholia, my dear - all it takes is your smile to start this process, where hues of regret pour out their transient accord