Smell of home-baked bread and red wine,
Who will be here, watch my hair turn grey?
No moment like the next one
In my kitchenette of tears.
Who will breath into my bosom
While I lullaby them to a sweetest sleep?
A little one heralding noble beginnings
Why are lilacs late to bloom this year?
I reminisce over the fragrance on my window sill,
The warm welcome of the spring
No more within reach now
And I am not missed when I’m not home.
Come here come here, a voice whispers
The lover pours himself another glass
And as he drinks from the water of Lethe
He sinks into oblivion and love he serves no more.
Nescient of his forgetfulness
I remember everything: the long good nights,
Our long good falling and the longer goodbyes
As if they happened all at once.
And in that room as in that…
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