When a rose dies,
she dances her last dance in the wind,
scents intensely and draws dark reds in the morning.


When it is a dream that dies,
a reality of pessimism loathing and
hope is clouded among the tall trees
oblivious to frustration and forgetfulness.


When spring dies, a torrid summer draws
nostalgia and sleep and laziness with whites and
rays encourage us to calmly fight the day.


But when it is a voice
that falls into silence, in complete destruction,
in the abyss, there is no colour
for the emptiness of his absence,
there is no rhythm, no word,
even no poetry.


When a voice dies,
the melody in the air is silenced,
time extends and flexes
and we feel abandoned on earth.


In you was the
order of things and
in the silence of your
music, chaos, disorder, emptiness,
nothing between the pages of a book,
the mark of my love in a space in memory.