Something like an old love that repeats itself after many years, something that you have lost, a lifetime is waking up today , a brown photo from many years ago in the endless summer of August, next to a girl more easterly than the wind, whose name you dont even remember, a music full of notes of homesickness , silence full of unsaid, the voice of Shamloo, the coffee cigarette, was our whole clear gesture, martyr. Becoming a third or Costa Rica, a scrap camera of the Super Eight, and the division of a cigarette out of poverty, half gone, half in the return, the resonance of the endless war, the constant fighting of the hour, the repetition and repetition of broken dreams on the restless border of sleep and wakefulness , something like an old perfume that feels fresh like your memories, the first but clumsy love, the same love that you had seen with you for a lifetime in a chance way , the same that you thought would be the last one day. You wake up, you see it, you dont know it, you dont know whats going on , youre in a car in a strange city, theres a person on the street when you saw it , you know the whole scene, you already feel this one moment, where you were already sleeping, where is our waking life , what is the border of dreams, and the truth of the question is here, the question is always here, something like an old love that repeats itself after many years , something that you lost a lifetime in this day. Hes waking up
