And it was that day,
I was eighteen years old
when he showed up.

He entered like who enters slamming doors,
noisy, impossible to ignore.
He entered big, inmense, luminous.
His brown face seemed carved by the sun.

I saw him, he saw me, and we recognized each other,
a brief moment that seemed eternal.
Barely a second and not more.
But a second later,
my smile was not mine anymore.

What would the walls say if they could speak?
Would they repeat the same poems I once read to you?
Or would they choose to remain silent,
like I do now
And bitterly cry as they see my own tears?