One shouldn't substitute his feelings for his habit,

Display an individual vacant look,

It is immoral (though indeed we have it)

To sour blood and hang love on the hook.

But hearts do not agree to be retired,

They have been beating still against the flesh,

They need to get a full-time job, be hired,

To cure colourless insensible life-slash.

The sense of love makes longer weeks and years,

It gives the taste to everything around,

It ruines mustiness, foresees one's soul repairs,

And sends away the habit to the ground.

We live as neighbours very often thus,

Grey world, grey peace for centuries respecting,

Sometimes don't see, sometimes , masybe, neglecting

The coloured sparklings which do wait for us.