Hair of memory

behind the darkest clothing

although there will be no sunrise

...

Sometimes you have to laugh

at open cracks

-caused by excessive loneliness-

on the wall of distance

...

Sometimes a little dew 

may be the blooming of the garden

on the wet body of fatigue

in the coldest silent bond

...

Sometimes the string of hope

rotten over time,

close to permanent turns of the road

give the order to stop

for the moment of “being”

in the passion of a lasing love.

To become “you”, we can

sometimes visualize “us”

in the most real dream

over the hedge of the accident.

Like a breeze, 

sometimes we have to entrust

ourselves through the hair of memory

...

Sometimes, eyes closed, 

we have to promise the daylight

to starless nights