You know my voice, my tiny voice
is flapping through the air
and all the words I want to say
go with my tears after your heart.
The coming age for you to go
and I will learn to say goodbye.
You hear my voice, my mourning voice
and both of us will have to cry.

I have a hand, unable hand
which goes beyond to bring you back,
to embrace you all my senses long
whilst you stare at me…
…I’ll have to cry.
So deep, so blue, this summer edge
I see you walk… alone, away.
You breath so painful melody,
cause you are my dying butterfly.

(Buenos Aires, Feb 23 / 2002)