The dimming light keeps on dimming
And the sun keeps on forming
To the rescue of confidence of deeming
To await my maiden’s coming.
I hear on the news the coming of a war
In June to break our fingers and joins.
Ours never crossed, still anticipating the tour;
They better avoid it, they must spare my loins.
Every neighbour seems not to notice
The waiting with which I’ve been broiled
Dusk till dawn, thinking I am about Clarice.
I’ll soon die unless my hopes are oiled.
Here at the porch I sit,
Again the sun is drowning
Behind the houses magically lit.
I can’t stop waiting, damn the frowning.