In the pieces of what the cold of December left us; That's how they pass me
The days, and the years pass to me, not one as before, with other damages,
Maybe like other loves, with the taste of another wine in the mouth and
A heart rippled by concussion, that you will not understand, because
It is not your wings that open to emerge in the new year.
And I miss Mayo and I hear Bloom from Paper Kites on the radio
Like every year on the anniversary of my birth, he makes 19 long passes,
In which I would die happy even if I did not manage to travel around the world.
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Although I can not read every famous book of
My insatiable appetite for devouring every book on my favorite list,
Even if he had only read me a couple of times what he wrote
Anna Frank and the dramatists, although I never would have married one,
It would have been perfect to savor feeling ignored and learn
Depression and its state of concentration so perfect,
Unable to imitate as he immerses himself in his Utopian reality
And be the first to read art fragments every morning,
Although for some reason I think it would be unhappy,
Because I do not think I can predict tomorrow,
But right now, what I've covered would be fine,
Only with a good song for the soul that contains your voice
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