Do you remember those times where, old friend,
the blue morning burned in your mouth?
Drunk, Aphrodita laughed and toasted with you
leaving the scent of someone else's body in your bed.
Where did those days run aground?
At what luminous beaches?
Running away from yourself and from dawn, you escaped
looking in bars for those magic words
that stop time, but you came back
and found yourself waiting for you at home.
And dawn, sincere and homicidal,
brought its routine and its anchor.
Love is the stone that Sisyphus pushes,
the world the bell of a scared cat.
Nobody warned us that loving is hurting,
that growing is learning that for coming back,
and for just about anything, it's too late,
and that which never was
our most true lover.
So let's toast now, old friend:
let this Autumn come to an end and solve the mystery
of the eclipse in your chest, that we still don't give up.
From the night we learned old spells
that help to charm
time and its ghosts.
Sisyphus leaves today his stone at the mountain top
and the cat falls asleep in your arms tonight.
Maybe they are right and loving is hurting
but who the hell wants to come back
if what counts is to learn
that that which never was is never lost,
that that which never was is never lost.
