As fragrance's maze seduce my focus
you deceive me with your sweet delusion,
a presence, that modulates my locus,
prey, of a lovable intrusion.

Although a point, fixt, without a centra,
a most movable tone in me you are
as I in hymns, gigs and alegrettas
your voice discern, the one, that I desire.

Yet in vain, my vanity for you recoil
as bending thrice your space on paper flat
seems devoid of sense, in want of joints;
a futile try to grip a flow of light.

"Really, though would you like to sing with me?
Then write for me a note where we might meet."