The twenty-first. Night. Monday.

The outlines of the capital are in mist.

Some idler invented the idea

That there’s something in the world called love.

And from laziness or boredom,

Everyone believed it and here is how they live:

They anticipate meetings, they fear partings

And they sing the songs of love.

But the secret will be revealed to the others,

And a hush will fall on them all …

I stumbled on it by accident

And since then have been somehow unwell.