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. 




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