It should smell like trees with white pearls,
who cuddles the horizon with their gaze,
but the forest has grasped its grey curls
beyond that, only you could be my praise.

And it still smells like frozen soul and frost
looking for its mate on the sky's notice board,
guessing from its whispers the dreadful lust,
dreaming of true embrace they can afford.

It should smell like diffused, scented candles
like the peace-making dreams split into half,
carrying us on the shy path that handles
through sealed mysteries that makes you laugh.

But it smells like sorrow in which tears are hurting,
like thorns in the petals and the taste of bitter lemon,
longing for emotions and sweet words flirting,
oh, if we could say, "I've died and got to heaven!"