Must death always find its way to us?
A paper full of memories, I don’t want to kill it.
Look for me in the depths of the unknown,
In the hidden secrets of the soul.
In broken pieces and forgotten places.
I’ll be her.
The one clad in silk, or maybe in nothing.
The one living solitary, beneath the snow.
Who’s lover, he; din’t even know!
Find me in the dates of of this mortal world,
in the breath of your sweetheart.
In the reflection of that broken glass,
I’ll be the one.
Crying in the closet of your majestic wooden house.
In the aging of the tree,
in the ruins of the world.
In khadi and silk,
woven not produced.
Touched, felt and embraced by a thousand!
I’ll linger in the haunting scents of your once present
I’ll be the one banging on the doors of your memory
The leaf in the snow.
Not beautiful, no never! Alone.
Take me in now,
So when you touch, do you feel a thousand others more?
You don’t possess me, you never can.
I’m wild and free.
I’m pen and paper.
I’m written and unwritten
Told and forgotten.
His memory shall remember,
when his past shall haunt.
Don’t hide too far,
This is home, I am home.
Yet, you’ll chase me and forget me
and once again; remember me.
Centuries would pass.
What’s my struggle is your victory,
my love now your hate.
my present and your past.
It’s not a different world,
it’s the same.
When you embrace me,
when you cut that tree,
when you’ll write that letter,
you’ll know me,
oh! I promise.
You’ll find me!