In utter darkness,
around it all;
above all times,
the bluebirds are chanting the same old songs.
The dragging days;
the drunken dawns.
I witnessed the race of the alarm clock
with the secret nights;
then begged for nothing but the tricks of the light,
waiting for the red rose to reveal.
I sensed the truth of your lips.
A thousand sips of 1997,
not event the slightest glance,
will turn us back to last December.