Still I remember, that morning of winter…
I remember well after a tender kiss…
The death still is alone a gone ticket of .
Prum place still, for somebody without life…
Rocks, dagger this does not wound me more…
I am free… I am of departure…
Scars, nor I remember more… the wound that I have…its souvenir brings…
Its fingers in the piano, touching a good bye song…
To feel its body, its pale hands with me cold… And not to hear a light sigh at least…
That love pain… Mine it has taken flower, my sad moan, my shout of pain…