I see constellations in your eyes,
The same constellations that poets see.
Poets love, kiss in thoughts,
And all their thoughts will settle in sonnets.
They will be printed by shops and Newspapers,
And the girl in the Park reads them.
And then who will make notes and couplets.
And someone will fall in love with the song for a moment.
The paper is all yellow, and that part of it,
That people will write down a few words there.
Poets will again and again
And print your lines again.
And summer nights they are asleep Newspapers
A tale of cicadas on the eyes. And in the sky
There you can see sparks from the constellation of poets
Just like yours. But that's a secret.
