Don't be sure you have time for there's no assurance
As all good fortune security deadens the senses
It comes simultaneously like pathos and humour
Like two passions not as strong as one
They leave fast grow silent like a thrush in July
Like a sound somewhat clumsy or a polite bow
To truly see they close their eyes
Though to be born is more of risk than to die
We love still too little and always too late.