Her foreign ways of doing little things Surround my memory and dreams Her mouth - a poem in itself and grace without compare I walk in rain under that window I hear her voice calling my name - a song of crystals in the wind but shattered as I wake... Her figure walks in front of me I can't believe and run... A dark mirage with other woman's eyes Gives chills along my spine... Her foreign ways of showing love Would melt the toughest man She taught me how to laugh and cry With tears of joy and sorrow... * . It's winter now and I am gray The house is cold and empty The fire logs recall my past And every flame sparkle a song About a love I can't forget... www.scripca.com http://www.gustavcaillebotte.org/A-Young-Man-At-His-Window.html