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The agonising silence of despair,
conjugated with dark melancholy,
that which corrodes memories,
that cruelly chills the soul,
today converge in this room.
The gloom of the cloudy night,
the cold of the wet wind announcing the storm,
The rain... the last thing that was missing.
It comes with thunder,
thunder rumbling in the ears,
like the echo of his words before his departure...
Cigarette smoke swirls in the wind,
puffs of smoke forming whimsical shapes,
I glimpse his face among them,
I look at his swaying body before fading away,
before the cigarette burns itself out...
The coffee gets cold,
its bitter taste prevents it from passing down the throat,
It's cold... as cold as the memory the soul harbours.
Like the heart that cries out a name,
that name he promised never to mention
and today it returns to his memory without warning...
The storm was so short-lived,
but the darkness persists...
It won't go away,
it doesn't want to go away...
Like that memory that returns,
that plays with the mind and tortures the heart,
scourging the soul...
The self-imposed pain of exile makes echoes that resound,
that hurt and kill.
It hurts! It hurts the heart...
You don't know in what way...
