I rode a horse of your velvet shreds
who delivered me to that scene
and that charming look
that adorable look of her eyes
that last tears in love vein
that was transferred to memory
the ink flew as a pulse of news
from your several folds to that
who's sleeping in his bed
I was and life was walking
while time's staying, despite of them,
as both the author and director
and our will was left trapped in pages
closing the rotting page in this time
accepting nothing but playing us
as a gray symphony in a winter
that craved all what we have
except a smile that refuses
obeying in beaches of life
