aSongforCon

“Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory; 
Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heap’d for the belovèd’s bed; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on.”
― Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Until we meet again ConTzu …. xx