Dull would be the moment of heavenly end,
If sadness were the only word to defend.
A touch still lingering on sweating brow,
Of hands once hot with temptations wild.
Her hands have escaped me now,
For they are lost or out of style.
Dreams escape from mind in sombre tone,
Of delights once borrowed, barely known.
Open soul becomes a target of missed delight.
Hands held in front of face, unknown enemy;
Wisdom is lost before I've begun to fight.
Travelling inside the nightmares so free,
I watch the room explode in mystical light.
It is eternal, it is the ending of me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.