Who will write verses to you now
that I dropped the pen on my best poem?
The night is temperate, the wind is howling
and a single tear runs through my face.
Who will grow wrinkles with you now
that our fate is immutably ephimeral?
The sun is waiting to graze my temples
and remind me that life goes by.
Who will gather dawns with you now
that I took to my winter lair?
The trams are sleeping in their loop,
ready to roar in the early morning.
Who will owe you a garden of flowers
for all those times he clouded your smile
now that I lost all sovereignty
over the strings of your emotions?
The lamp gives out its electric light,
but I wish for a flicker to give me respite
from looking into the darkness
and keeping bad company to myself.
Who will let you go to be free now
that I’ve closed all your doors to me?
I locked the room from outside,
but I forgot to get out.