Everytime I say your name
I imagine a blurred landscape
between the mist and the mountains

And among those mountains there is art
that has half-drawn you,
                                  reminding yourself
while you are among the fog

That confusing fog of ups and downs
will have covered your hair completely
before I can portray your face

So I forget the face with your name
but not your art neither the memory
Cause the memories fly but
                                 without your art

Because among the mists
            and the mountains
I still can read your hair and your trails
that you have roamed so much with me

I do not rhyme or measure because,
along with you, the world's verses
will make sense more than ever

And outstretching my arm and the brush
the pen spilling ink on the paper
I will write a verse and I will paint you
                            a portrait as the fog