It cometh from when you packed all things,
all the little stupid souvenirs,
- and all the days they hardly dare to remind
dressed like in a movie of faded photographs and yellowish diary pages.
Such a noisy film printed to my eyes
in which i repeat my clichés.-
It cometh from when you contemplated the loss,
all the little stupid souvenirs,
and all the things to feel how time tastes like,
as tough sorrow was to intend as comfort,
tragical weather for our life to wander in.
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