Uselessness poetry of men, things.
Sadness of a suffering love.
The anxiety of the unfinished...
Oh! How the paths are long, the sad paths of love...
Trying not to remember the white sheets.
Not even one tear pending on the silent face
Not even the thought that came after, when the absence grew into the heart.
And the present is silence and the fear of death
And the sensation that everything is fading bit by bit till a irremediable