sábado, 18 de mayo de 2013
Last night I dreamed that someone told me: your love is dead.
Your love, the girl you loved when you were young,
In a cold city in the South
where the parks are one huge dewdrop,
at the hour when the fog is still virgin
and the city turns its back
on the gaze of desperate souls.
And she died- they told me – without saying your name.