This is the song of the crying words,
of empty feelings devoted to be listened.
Even if your love was long forever missing.
This is not a screaming act of sentential guilt,
But a poem to the dreams of unforgotten feel.
The one that hits and never disappears.
This is to the trapped men of rottened souvenir,
The ones who carry a full burden of dry tears.
How to sing, when silence is flooded in sins.
If only the past would be as short as present,
or a sweet kiss would drop on the top of your forehead.
Just perhaps then you could feel the perfume of her thoughts,
and dance on the fire of her fine mannered blunt tune,
Whistling back to her steep high heel shoes,
Leaping from a neglected outcast mind into a spark of childish teasing attitude,
Laughter would then invade you man, back into the lush virtues of uncontrolled run.
Just perhaps then, this silent song would have never had a final despairing tone.