From the corner of a memory...

A silver mirror kept in my room,

showcasing everything in an impartial way,

It lights everything with its silver gloom,

when it gets hit by the golden sunray...ah! when it gets hit with such golden a gleam how carelessly does my heart bleed.

Is there a pane stands that upright, right on the edge of the corner where is there but a black silk, ah! how thou would adore it by this heart of mine - is now my mind so jeopardised.

Remember I that yellow is but not a shade of thy fancy, and that a soft white is lieu I remember still; alas! doom is it I suppose that here I stand with the glass reflecting thee - and a yellow hue is all that the silver turns to.

Remember I that must thou know of the moment when, amidst the rain drops caressing thy neck, steal did I a gentle kiss. Now in this blizzard of snow, am I but a vagrant ransacking a moment of bliss.

"'Twill be a memory of mine" did I say.

Yes, did I say so and oh! how well I shelter these words underneath my chest - my chest so bare that vanishes some love out of it into this thin air that can only compose a milieu I no longer envisage I belong to; such vain search is it that I look and look so for me to find you, yet assailed am I with nothingness in sight. I wonder if thee crossed that line?

"'Twas my memory", now I say.

Yet, pinches it my skin just enough that is the same mauled - must I ask why, but thou remain quiet.

I look you in the eyes and tweaked art they at the corners, wrinkles complementing thy pallor but just see how beautiful thou look! Oh dear! did thee not age for me you see. 

And will I be a gentleman and genuflect to ask for thy hand once more. Thus, can I not demand but beseech if I be honored with a pas de deux once more? May I, please?

Thee stand with that smile right there, so still and frozen that scared is my teeny heart if art thou gone for despite the yellow on thy pale visage, 'tis no less a mystery to me why you smile still. 

Do I not understand, and seek I some aid now. Will thee help me out?

"'Tis a memory to me" so I say, for was it always there to stay.

Oh my love! must I dare scrounge for this answer, although heavy is my heart with blood. Do you sense the gush so bloody, implodes that everywhere inside?

Oh my muse, did you take the same to thine grave to hide?