In the shadow of the leaving song,
the nostalgia of our palaces
and our authority
over the invisible guitar strings
is now becoming an apparition.

It was the enchanted puberty
that burnt the untouchable years
like dry leaves,
was it not?

Perhaps the words of secret lovers
on the mattress of the sun
were spontaneous but poor
for the light-giver time.

A minor glance
through the long, red hair
was never enough
to rebuild the palaces.

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