These faces so tired and pale
Were shaped with birches
Indocile but doomed to resist
To overcome the pain of loss.
These eyes lose their colours
Showing nothing except shame,
They have never looked at the sun
That is too blind to understand...
These lips whisper the only
Name forsaken in the depths of time,
They confront splendid illusions
But they are not able to utter a prophecy
Surrounded by darkness...
Absorbed by madness...
Just moments...
Just fragments...
When a last thread is torn
When a last page is turned
When a last exhale calmes,
A heart stops beating paralyzed.
Depressed with nonsense of remorse
We ever must pay twice
Trampling flowers growing
With the sickly-sweet smell of grief.
Epitaphs as secrets betrayed
On monuments of compassion
Absurdly try to describe pain
Where echoes of the past walk... |
