The melancholy of silence

The gum of time passes on memories which are erased. Little by little in an insipid grimace. Woven of the white sons of the lapse of memory. Stretching itself infinitely between gray walls. Making ip the sunlight of a paleness mortal. Behind unfaithful grids. There, where there is no more rebel. Removing their names. Leaving only one sad reason. The hope to wait in vain. That the destiny does not change. Of a heart without a future. Bitter memories of joys deformed under the mincer of the past. Slowly cutting the last pieces of beautiful. Nourishing one unobtrusive present where only the ugly one remains. Plunged with deepest of a tomb. Where the notes of an unfinished symphony fall asleep forever. Not to have had the force more to compose it. Nor will. Incompetent to restore the vacuum which seized the moment when is very precipitated. A cry, a lapse of memory, fear of crossing. The wire on which the memory danced. Energy to seek with deepest of the heart the force to rebound of notes in notes in the joy of a magic music. One moment magic, always. So far. Where nothing was essential throwing on the bottom of the hole. Lapse of memory, not written words of a life. During at the end of the shoddy cord of a ravaged symphony. The gum of time passes on memories which are erased. Little by little in an insipid grimace. Woven of the white sons of the lapse of memory. Stretching itself infinitely between gray walls. Under the bitter complaint of the violins of the winter. Crying the slow escape of time. That nothing any more moderates. That nobody venerates. Shades forgotten on the black ground of the melancholy of silence. Whose nobody seeks the presence. Between the hardened walls of a heart without life.