She was killing time in Montserrat
as she felt the boiling of the stone-chair in the cotton heart he digs
and she was holding back the anchors that led her to this place,
she took a photo of the band and two guys in leather jacket with a haircut to regret,
little prince upon a picture of a story that comes back
and a simple dress in almost white, an almost lover to confess,
the roses guide her steps to stairways leading to uncover all that rest..

He used to burn a pocket full of wonders in his chest,
arms around the trembling body of a secret shady deed not to forget
and the memories so sweet of the books she used to read and of those with funny breed,
and he used to let her to the facts while the night would do its heist and others slept,
bloody hands was all she had to turn from labor into calling mirror pieces, ash and sugar, fourteen years of days to last till the sunrise of a blast…

And she was killing all her time on a Sunday afternoon,
people heading up and down, whiskey, vodka and cigars
and the words would come and go raining tears in her soul,
while two strangers on a bench never got to have a chance,
on a Sunday afternoon when she’s loosing all again
in the darkness with no cover, with the eyelids to the floor
and the morning act of glory that reminds her of the old…