segunda-feira, 16 de fevereiro de 2015

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.

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