I know I can`t
ever
write
your word
again
but my heart,
oh, my heart...
is sore

and if you only knew
how I struggle with the poem
you`d understand
that death is strange
and I am ill
of life
because my heart doesn`t beat how my mind says
and you remain enchanting,
a dream that could be
but it isn`t

and if you only knew how I love you
reality, beside me, would still be,
and you
you would still be gone... you...
and anyway i`d do it
you couldn`t love me back
maybe because I
am only a number from life
crossed with a thought
and if you knew that my heart lives
inside of me just
by Eminescu,
Voiculescu,
because my poem
isn`t anymore,
it`s dim without you,
you,
you still are
so much inside of me
calling me
to live with all my strength
my pain