LOVER

Lover,
little lover.
In your house they’re burning thyme.

Wheth
er you’re going, whether you’re coming, I will lock the door with a key.

With a key of pure silver.
Tied up with a ribbon.

On the ribbon there’s a message:
My heart is far away.

Don’t
pace up and down my street. All that’s allowed there is the wind!

Lover,
little lover.
In your house they’re burning thyme.