I am afraid of those eyes, whose sight never lingers
Like little girls uneasy in their own vestibules.
This sight, how could I not recall, there aren’t many ways
To construe the front that belonged to the listless.
Tell me, if you would do, I would do, too faintly
That those eyes never meant the look that they have slipped.
How could they if they’re all obscurities, though I tried
To understand, that the cynic like I has fabricated?
But if I would uncoil the rope in which either side
You could stand, where would you be, I wonder,
In the two definite distinctions? I’m not sure
You would believe like a child to his little faith
That there are things in this life we need to stand up for.