Sequence of images on the other side of the curtain,
In a semi-dark gloomy room,
Is nothing but a foggy trail of memory.
The past is still calling, sometimes. Maybe often…
We usually encounter in the absurd. The feeling is melancholic.
I tell her: I am the one you have kept from the past days.
Maybe I'm a little older, more experienced, worse...
When you leave the apartment, do not close the window.
I have to know,
when the curtain flutters in the wind that hides you,
That is nothing but the proof
That I am still here,
when the storm strikes.