For many decades, I believed
that selling my heart was worth it.
Without ceremony,
at a bargain price,
to entrust it to better hands.

I believed that the mutual morning
would return with
the first breath.
The first light green tear
will be resurrected under the eyelid -
there is too much loneliness.

It came to light - prayers
will remain unanswered
if anxiety does not find its way,
does not reach
the margin of future.

You dreamed clearly
and to spite my melancholy; I felt
the taste of forbidden words,
the breath of thoughts
that were waiting for
their turn.

You know, I would like to dedicate
to you the remnant of light -
tenderness belongs to
someone else.

Passion? Shame on me
to admit my silence.
Will I find you when one more sip
of life, the last unintentional cry,
has simply faded away?
Will you return to hand me
eternity, again late, again lost?