Found, even in translation

My unsung ballads, now IU elegies, echo through the night, so that I am truly just like words scribbled on sand I’ve never seen, meaningless without the lingering waves, or the melody that aired happily, sillily together, a soulmate soliloquy shrouded so deeply in a steeped heart, weight born from sunder, soaked in time, spread across flaking paper with inked dates that cannot age with me.

What is after

Bonds die, only for the promises to thrive. Direction-locked dreams rise off-course, skewing toward an outdated version of you and your predilections. How unfair it is to burden a living thing with dead wishes.