Good morning, Dougal, said Florence.
Morning, said Dougal, tersely.
Zebedee arrived.
Even if you send me now
again impudent letters,
with tender memory you lick at postcards,
alone the sight of your handwriting
arouses a longing,
which still seems to be deep inside me.
Let me give up the chance,
the one chance,
Let me give up the chance,
the one chance,
which still remains for both of us,
which still remains for both of us.
Even if you send me now again impudent letters,
with tender memory you lick
at postcards,
don't let your warm skin deceive me,
not even once the feelings,
because of which I since then
Let me give up the chance,
the one chance,
Let me give up the chance,
the one chance,
which still remains for both of us,
which still remains for both of us.