Speak, but only when the nightingale sings.
Until the next, your highness. When the waves crash over.
For I cannot think of what I should, or shouldn’t say.
I shall speak with yield, and know that you listen all the same.
Over the old cobblestone path, I tap my soles a nervous tune, one that gets me thinking.
I wouldn’t dare exhaust neither time nor thought. For I know I’ve a thousand cycles of sunsets and sunrises to consume, in having a chat with you.