The drops of the cold water were sliding down by the empty glass of your house. Noone there. Noone will open the door to let me in.
Your life was like an ancient myth. It was full of unbelievable extensions.
Every year i’m passing by our memory, our hopes and love that has died towards that empty glass.
Soft yellow light of the fall 1922 is not an exclusion.
Why have you done it? Why wasn’t there anyone to stop you?
The trenches of WWI bound me like the dirty naughty hands while you were dying of absence of love. Of mystery, that could bring you back to our lake.
Letters from you suddenly disappeared in winter nineteen seventeen, and i couldn’t come due to the another hole which was blasting my leg.
Ashes of my cigar are falling down reflecting in the rusty Window.
I remember how we loved each other just there. Lying on the ground. Hidden by an old huge bush.
“Yes, darling, I’ve come back. I’m here. Come to me, open that rusty window and just let me in”: i think… and it seems i see the snow-white skin of your thin hands behind the glass.
The crow sitting on the roof begins to croak. He does it every time i come here. When i come to this old park. Our children could already have there own ones.
I went to New Orlean in 1946, and took some photos for you. Just look. Yes, we could bring our granchildren there.
In nineteen sixty i tried to love again. You know, I’ve started to give lectures in Cambridge. You wanted to send our son that never Born there. Some young ladies are still trying to make me a company, but how could i… you are the one.
Huh, it’s autumn again. I left Cambridge after that whispers that new born orphan is mine. It was ten years ago. Unbelievable.
It’s nineteen eighty. I don’t Remember how old is me.
Noone comes to this Park due to rumors about the ghost in the old house.
My love, i know, you’re still there… even now… in twenty twenty one.