That's just a little dress on you,
Which leaves no room for thoughts,
Those words that suddenly are stuck in blue
On the thin shoulders of the Earth...
On the damp shoulders of heaven...
Is it half past eleven,
O'March?
That's just a little dress on you,
Well, not much,
But our touch
is like some shadows in the snow,
Sliding and turning into hugs,
Or even something more...
Only the dress is interfering with them, ah...
Here is the thing,
For him the main dilemma.
