You're all words, When it is your death. For people by then Would have forgotten How to love you, again. They would remember You not, for your deeds Were forgotten too soon. You lived on the smell Of ephemeral cigarettes, On the taste of bitter beer And the whiskey that burns Your guts as it vanishes. What is it that you'll leave behind? Your beauty was forgotten When you succumbed To the wrinkles of aging. Your smile is no longer charming When you hide the gum That misses a tooth. So what is that you'll leave behind? Probably, those words, Never spoken, Only written down, On the bark of a tree To be read by strangers Who know nothing about your struggle. And when the tree dies, And the soil embraces your words, Probably it is then That your soul will rest As your words will finally leave love For the soil, That you couldn't.
Welcome to Paraferno - this is the story of a lackadaisically frantic and whimsical dame on an oneiric infernal paradise ;-)