I am the remains of a flower in a thirsty garden. I stretch my hand toward your flowing river, counting the moments of despair that fill me with a strange solitude that places me on a forgotten cliff.
I am here waiting for you, waiting for your rain; waiting for your call without hope or a whisper. I have nothing but this unforgettable solitude. Nothing but remains drowning in a strange silence and a strange distance.
Yes, I am the remains of a forgotten story. When I wake up in the hands of longing, I recite all the passionate poems. How I wish you would shine upon the remains of my thirsty fields. How I wish you would feel me one day, to touch with your hand what remains of me.