When time is already like water,
Hurriedly, between the fingers of his hands,
The most tender, comes... She…
Not caring, on the omnipotence of separation.
Someone will call her later,
In the sense that it came, out of place,
Too late, where the years are, just about,
Sweep late blizzards, snowfall…
But it's not all true, it's love
It is called, only because,
That we are in the late autumn, with her again,
To now, not give... no One…
You can't treat her like the one where else
There is time for quarrels and meetings,
To make peace, or, leaving all,
Get lost ... No, this one, take care
Is worth affectionately call, keeping from grievances,
From deceptions and stupid infidelities…
That candle burns too fast,
Our lives, among the changes…
And not given away, an hour ago,
It will be too late to return, maybe:
Hand touch, or affectionate look,
That he was able, briefly, to forget…
Very carefully, as if carrying,
Not love, but a crystal glass,
It's filled with what you give,
Before, my days atlantal…
... I probably still couldn't
Explain everything... but simply, love,
So little, among the distant roads,
In a moment where everything is ... behind…