Between the lips of the mist
Some flowers appeared:
Tall threes watching over them,
protecting the fairies' blue plum.

They met in a pink field,
And they fell in love
with the slowness of a blooming flower.

They drank all their essences
as dry roots do with the rain.

Suddenly it became too much,
And their dried up
as a rose without oxygen.

As Carthage's Queen
I recognized
The old flame's signs,
But it wasn't
Love:
It was
Pain.

I'm not there
But I see

I'm not there
But I listen,

I'm not there
But I scream,

I'm not there
But I cry.

I wasn't here, but my eyes are still full
of the warm bodies
who passed away
those nights.