Tu não és uma falsa memória, pois não?

I am sick of poetry. The sky starts to darken.

There's nothing strange on this end of afternoon. 

People walk in a rush towards home after their jobs. 

Others stumble in the contrary direction.

It seems that I told but you were not sure.

I was unsure also as I seem to have denied it later.

But now that calm is and the misery of living never ends

I wish I could come to see you and kiss you again:

This would make me be alive, a better man

and not a beast with false memories.