Summer wind at midnight

It's 12 past 12.

As I lie in my chair and gather the dust of the day in my mind, a soft melody invades the air.

The softest, purest melody...


I would rather not go
back to the old house...

It is like a warm summer wind that caress my dress and my skin, on the rooftop of our house in Portugal. It brings back holiday's silence, quiet calm.

The change of key is the mountain that surprises me, at the end of the immense Spanish flat golden fields.


When you cycled by
Here began all my dreams
The saddest thing I've ever seen
And you never knew
How much I really liked you
Because I never even told you
Oh, and I meant to


And if someone had sang it to me before, maybe I would have never gone astray.
Music saves.
Music could have saved me, saved us, saved the pretty shell that the ocean washed out of my hands...

Poetry flew out of my hands with the waves, and I let it go...

I know I cannot bring it back, it is pointless. When you read your poetry it becomes the world's to take.

Children should never read poetry out loud.

But the little flame burns still, somehow. Aspirations of a life of fantasy and companionship in Toscany remain as sepia portraits of the laughing 13 year old, with her hair braided, and her dress floating, as she ran accross roman bridges in search of another ice-cream shop.

It feels like summer wind, here, in my room. It comes from south, with its smell of excitment and illusion. The southern wind is here, in my room.

I would love to go
Back to the old house
But I never will
I never will ...
I never will ...
I never will ...