It strikes six o'clock,
frames, cups, coffee,
haze in the television,
feet feeling cold.
Ten, two, a hundred,
moondust wisps
cross the blind,
non stopping
its ballet.
It won't come back,
it never left.
Every memory will be
a deserter,
maybe a mistake.
Every wall, a waltz,
a ghost Sonata.
Every spiral,
in every clock...
...sleeps a tremble...
It strikes six o'clock already,
the coffee got cold.
The moondust brings to us
the last transmission:
For a second she was
the queen of the recital,
dressed up again in the silver
that the time knit for her.
And the curtain opened,
challenging the final part,
and in that gap of light
she dances again,
she dances again,
she dances again,
she dances again.