And running she met me down the stairs
almost nothing seemed to be changed in her to me.
Then sadness enveloped us like honey
for the time slipped on us.
The sun going down already
reddened the city
before of us and now foreign
and incredible and cold
like an instant "deja vu"
shadow of youth the fog was around us.
Stable cars were looking us in silence,
old walls were proposing new heroes.
Ten years to tell each other,
but sentences remained inside us
"What do you do now? Do you remember...?
Our times were beautiful!
I have written you... It's one year...
They told me you were still away"
Then dinner at her home
my new courtesy
flatware coloured nostalgia.
And sentences, like we were two olds,
were running after time behind us.
For the first time I saw those mirrors
I understood pictures, ornaments and her parents.
Our myths dead now,
the discover of Hemingway,
feeling new,
things dreamed and now seen.
My America and hers
become in the way
our city so sad.
Papers and wind fly away at the station
cold and lights on maybe for us there
and finally in short her situation
like a lot of our films.
Like in a bad written book
he killed himself in Christmas,
but the sad story seemed to be absorbed by the dark.
Poor friend who was telling
ten year in few sentences
and I (was telling) mine in one greeting.
And I was thinking swung by the wagon
"Dear friend, time takes and time gives.
We always run in one direction,
but who knows what is and what sense has!
Timeless dreams remain,
impressions of a moment,
the lights of homes glimpsed in the darkness from a train.
We are something that don't remain
empty sentences in the head
and the heart full of symbols.