Iarna

Erau personajele unui roman neterminat .

El respira durere ,

Ea il imortalizase in caietul de franceza .

Nevazuta , nestiuna ,

Doar ea mergea cu dragoste pe urmele lui ,

Melancolizand iarna…

Ultima pagina a cartii a fost acoperita de coperta veche.

S-a terminat la fel cum a inceput: cu o obsesie.

Totusi, imi place sa-i mai rasfoiesc din cand in cand paginile...

What is it with you?!

As all my days have passed,
You're never here
You'll never last.
And as your tears all dry away
I know you won't heal me today..

But i know...there is something in the dark,
something lurking, sneaking,
lusting for your soul..
All the memories of me
Burning in the flame  you set for me.

It's on your head
It's on your hands
No rain could wash
The scars that I had left
In your skin as I struggled
to brake free !


Now this poem has no rhyme, has no feeling and no shame
But what it has is something that you'll never see.