Weite

It's Not The Same Air When You're Far Away,

Is Not The Same Invisible Brume,

Even The Mood Of The Moon Looks Dense,

And Mi Hands Don't Stops Of Searching You,

My Words Want To Be Hearing By You,

I Want To Keep Your Scent In My Breathe.

And The Night Is

A Venerable Old Woman

That Every Moon's Time

Die Like A Cestrum Noctornum:

That Line Of The Time

When I Miss

The Shape Of Your Voice,

The Rhythm

That Rides In Yor Skin,

Some Notes

That Comes Inside Your Sternum.

That Old Woman

Looks Young,

Living Proud Her Divinity,

With Dark Eyes,

Dark Hair

Wtih The Smile Of The Clouds,

And That Clime On Her Blood

Sounds Like A Secret,

With Your Saxophone Voice.

With The Sun Upon You

I Can Take The Time

To Watch Carefully

All The Poem Of Your Ways,

And The Night 

Of Your Weite*

Cant' Be That Sweet Galaxy

That Use To Be

When You're Around Me.

I Miss You

In All The Pieces

Of My Humanity.