When haunted by memories of the pasts,
Laying in bed, trying to sleep and dream
About the things who in the end will last,
I am hopeless, like nights who yearn to gleam.
I remember the park, the bench, the kiss,
The slow-passed music, and a warm embrace,
Things who I only at nighttime do miss,
And never think about throughout my days.
It is not love, that love of blissful youth,
The touches of her warmth, a stream of joy,
Who when the hands did touch always did sooth,
Or that I was an energetic boy;
It is the sleeping ignorance in me
That I do miss, who set me always free.