Is a dance without a hymn,
A ballad without a bend,
a winter without an end:
where I curl up by the fogged glasses
to forget the warmth sun offered me once.
The bright of your eyes are the shy autumn and mysterious fall.
Is a sigh without despair,
A rain without the air,
A summer with ominous ends:
My smile sometimes pretends.
For time becomes a path,
and journey is measured in memories.
I become a monk and a thief,
looking for peace, settling for grief.