Bird flies,
Sky’s blue,
Listen to Faun,
And think of you:

Nothing is better than those cheerful tunes:
When there’re foolish people forming platoons,
To protest for their belief with no fair
For other people who not involve; ne’er care,
Like us two or more people around them,
That we know they ne’er admire protester’s chem.

But just you; one folkish-musician mate:
The one who erase my feelings of hate,

There’s nothing else I could thank you,
Execpt this, for now
I only hope you’d miss me too!

To many sonnets,
Nothing new yet,

I must slow down,
And arrange the words I own,

For meanings, for evrything,
Now let me rest this evening.

Insomnia, insomnia, I am not here!
Please let me sleep ’til the morning comes near!

What worse than thee in front of me tonight?
Disturb me, wake me, so I sleep not right,

Why wouldst thou do this to my confused head?
I’m nearly insane and soon I’d be dead!

Seest thou not what thou hast done to me, friend?
I know this sickness would comes to an end,

But when wilt the day comes shine upon me?
When will I can sleep like when before thee?