Oh, now the end is here
It is late and the serenades are playing
The woman I love
Is a far-off hailing
Calling me back to her?
Or to some other man
In the milieu of becoming
I'm not sure who I am
Except apart or with you there
The guitar is strummed
And I feel the fear disappear
Only the comfort in sound
The music to my ears
And this is love
It is the throb of life
In other forms of art
Which we cannot touch yet are near
Far nearer than her love for me
far nearer than eternity
As time is a mirage on a swaying reed
Above a lake of becoming or suffering
I cannot tell which
And yet the serenade keeps playing
and somehow,
I know the switch
Has been turned
She has changed
Has gone away
Or is it my fear that speaks in this way?
I only know what the wine says
Late in the evening
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