• I let inspiration flow into me,
    as I listened to this melody.
    Molding a piece of white clay,
    on the 18th day of May.

    I molded her face, her eyes, her smile,
    as I drank from a little vial.
    I threw the sculpture away,
    for there was nothing more to say.

    It's dead! It's dead! It's dead!
    There is no sign of life.
    I covered my face with dirty hands,
    as I thought of worlds filled with vagabonds.

    They say I am the "Perfectionist",
    whose love is made by one list.
    Until I saw her smile at me,
    oh what sweet melancholy.