Softened roses in mildew of drained seconds
Are nestling weakly in dry whispers.
The voice is ill, sad and futile,
The breath is not fresh, it is not warm...
And the messages live surprised in peppermint pills.

The blotting paper of the roses has filled with hidden testimonies
That forever shouldn't have been welded to the mind.
These are sweet smelling simple tortures .
Though, when i dreamt you that night,
The sandals hasn't stopped anymore in the roses.
Ironically tricky it has stopped in us.
And as forever, i kept you on a canvas of present.

The blotting paper of the roses had filled with hidden testimonies.
Nothing , nowhere can ever go in .
It has suddenly become chilly and it`s cold.
The reality tram had stopped at my station
And i stepped in with the brown painted roses.
As a last softened drop in the blotting paper,
Crumpled, vindictive and frail,
I crossed over a last dreaminess, as in a trance:
If, if, if... there was " some time" "somewhere",
You would come to cover me,
The blanket would be warm,
The roses would bloom,
You, framed on the night stand, would smile
And I would watch you, and watch you
hours, for hours,
without forgetting...
without forgetting...
you don`t exist.