Nothing in this world
can be as immaculate and pure
as the love of us cold ones for the dead.
our love lives only in those fleeting moments
of recollection...
memories we're fearing to forget.
Our love knows neither kiss nor touch,
we are embracing dust, air or ourselves
when visualizing what we've lost.
awoken by a sound or scent,
some visions call sad phantoms..., floating,
wrapped in fading colours... -our lament.
And then there is the all-devouring dread:
"some day i might not bring him back...,
when my feeble mind can't help but lose
the countours of his face".
lost forever, lone and sad,
gone forever to the dead...
so far beyond the barriers of the oposite space.
Yet, alas, despite it all...
walking throught these deserted halls...
it's easy... still ...to love the dead...
it's easierto love the dead.

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