Over time, your desire dies,
The days of light fade away,
the lively conversations in distant corners,
the sparkling eyes, the sweet encounters,
become soft but insane memories.
You are no longer drawn to the lost voices,
nor the pleasant murmur of a bar on the corner,
the busy roads and beloved souls
become shadows of ancient rhymes.
The streets that once danced in fire
are extinguished in shadows, in cold routines,
the hands that applauded, an echo without supplication,
weave a silence that the hours soften.
With time, you die a little
