I turn the pages of my memories, which are glasses of lovely colours,
I paint nice faces,
but it is always your painting.
I live in my own world,
in the shelter made of hell,
I look people running around,
but none of them has moved.
And I often write the letters,
but I never send them,
because I always write the same,
that it is late,
and that I repent,
and each rough word that I said,
now I give it to the devil.
Your tears judge me,
for stealing for whole my life,
because I was sparing my own heart
and did not give it to you
Your tears judge me
because I have deserved it
and when the tear goes down my face
it burns my soul,
it kills me like poison,
because I have lost you