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Rating: Deep, too deep is the night of her ash-gray eyes.
A woman with a sharp profile, named Melancholy. Some call her Death, mistaking her for her sister.
Let's let her walk the paths alone this time.
And yet, what a strange charm and what a strange desire to follow her footsteps. Even this time.
Footsteps, faint footsteps traced by one who no longer observes the bustling of the world.
A chest torn open by words and a few fingers on a touched instrument, to offer, once more, its last worn-out portion of life.
A tango for smooth hearts.
The November of farewells is getting ready to undress with the maples.
The mirror barely shines.
Words, so many fleeting words too many to say. And how few are needed, even this time.
Thank you for the dance, sister Death.
Be quiet now, sit, listen.
Not me, no longer me, but the sound of the hummingbirds.
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