What kind of story lives so precariously,
never knowing the end, or having a past that will
justify any weakness or a past never to be able
to live itself down because forgiveness is a myth?

The light we see narrows every day, even though
what we live to see is full and free; as we age
what we know becomes less and less, like the light,
because we only remember when love was ours

But my friend, what you were in that moment
to me was worth everything I have suffered; what
was necessary after all were leaves that fall
and ice that melts to make way for a new life

There is no better time except for a time to come
that is as uncertain as it was long ago; but the
wisdom we gained must be discarded, for a baby
does not refuse to laugh because it knows better