This has never been a pleasure
neither has been lost.
Fact is what must be,
although it has already been.

We had something ephemeral,
which soon it would be gone
just like every euphoria,
bringing sorrows in great care.

None of us has
chances to escape,
but it makes so well
just imagining.

Without words I am
when I see what you loved.
Without hopes I exist
when there's nothing else besides this.