A dream of mine

it was a warm November day,

that month before December.

which doesn’t mean too much,

only for me it has a special figure.

it was around 7 p. m.

the seven magic number.

it wasn’t windy, wasn’t rain.

the darks of night above us,

the lights of streets allover.

old buildings were alive in centre,

we smoke and drank and kissed.

we walked, dividing crowd,

it was a warm November night.

I don’t remember moon or stars.

new buildings rising walls around,

a modern music of the street.

poor people beging for some food.

rich people driving noisy cars.

young people running home from work.

and we, in town, two strangers.

it was a road to walk by hand,

I checked my phone: 7 p.m.

we shared some stories from last week.

we passed on green and wait on red

and then we stoped, we raised our eyes

to reach, through black skyes, memory.

you spoke her name, I realised.

we crossed as lovers, left behind

the one you’ ve once admired.

but I remember now that then,

November, on the streets, 7 p.m.

you made a sword using her name

and killed a dream of mine.