After a wakeful night, like after a battle in which everyone is defeated,
Aware that there will be more, I light a cigarette by the open window.

We are all of the same stuff, but our designs are different.
We find ourselves by texture and fine valuers.
When they disappear, because of habit, because of vanity,
when we let them fade because we didn't nurture them,
they leave us, we leave,
dear people we were happy with
just because of the textures and light we shared.
Slowly, imperceptibly, we are left alone.
Loneliness is for one the choice and the other the destiny.
It doesn't matter if you have someone beside you or you don't.
I didn't choose her ...

Cold air comes in through an open window,
presses the smoke of a burned cigarette in my chest,
in the heart, pieces of ice melt in the eyes.
A courtyard surrounded by walls, like a prison circle,
dirty white garage - it lacks a brick on the gable,
plants that seek care and, by some miracle, grow on their own.
I had a dream…

Now I'm looking at the heavy clouds of reality,
not knowing what will fall out of them,
Cold December rain Or gentle white snowflakes.

Life is like this cigarette,
once burned it remains to burn,
to provide pleasure, to satisfy a need, to create dependence
and not to please someone at will, which is exactly what is burning.

The first flakes fell on the extended palm
and they merged into palm lines as if to predict destiny,
different from the one that sleepless night offered.

I will find my dream where it has been lost this sleepless night,
where he had hidden it this chilly morning.
There is still life breathed into me…