A girl in red and dreams was writing down
the moment of her life ,
confiding in a porcelain cup .
Her black pen tracing the intimate waves
of some piano blues rhapsody ...
A cascade of golden-autumn hair
full of a hold back chignon ...
Burnt chestnut eyes where a few cloud floated
Tears disguised as rain in her soul, grey shade...
She wasn\'t the Ipanema girl .
I contemplated the soft ovale of her face ,
north wind breath on ephemeral dunes ,
She wasn\'t the sirocco\'s daughter ...
The girl dressed in red was just a passionless dream...
Who knows ? Bent over a lover\'s mourning
undoing the cascade of her offered bun ?
I sensed ,the approach of the storm
and message to the angels ..
Resting her pen on a blank page ,
she casts on me the ink of an inner glance.
I was not a stanza in the theater of her litterature...
The girl dressed in red and dreams has gone ,
majesty of a soaring eagle ,
abandoning a porcelain cup so desperate
to its customers destiny ...
You who pass by without seeing me ,
morning mystery only leaving
an intriguing green tea fragile aroma...