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.