Dear April, now that you have returned to me.
Enamoured of your poesy I am still here.
Now the beaches eat more sand and on the other hand.
You run at the touch of the sea and giggle at me.
Only you are cognizant of what you make of me.
A Liar, a deluded being in dreams we talked of, to the moon.
You perch to the right spots,
and that goes for the both of your natures.
Influencing as they please.
Often I come across the Junes and the Mays.
But I know now since I have lived as a December.
That only the poems of April are the ones I feel.
(The Stories beneath the eyes)