On the couch he laid,
Tea cup in one hand, a biscuit in another,
His reading glasses on the verge of falling,
His book laid on the floor, carelessly.
Papers surrounded his whole body,
Rubber shrivels covered the floor,
Pencil sharpenings all over,
Just scribbles were seen on the many papers.
He was waiting,
For his love to show up,
It was past seven and she has not come yet,
She was always a dear to him, so Henry awaited.
Henry awaits that she will dance in front of him once again,
He is eager to smell her lovely strawberry fragrance,
And her voice still surrounds his empty house.
He wanted to look at her beautiful face once again,
He longed to feel her soft delicate hands,
Henry has been waiting,
Looking at the door constantly, night and day.
But his love never showed up,
She was long gone now,
Henry just did not accept it yet,
And so he waits, and will keep awaiting.