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When you are eighty and dying,
What is left from your twenties?
Your skin is rotting you,
Your cosmetics are giving you away,
Your hairs are greying in silence,
Slipping away while you are sleeping.
What is left by then?
My heart never leaves you;
Even one day when you are lying
Under the green land,
If you return
With just a little,
A little tinge of whisper
You make with the wind
That sends you here,
Even though I am sleeping,
I will love you as in my twenties
As I do.

12.08.2003, 1:45 am, Tue.

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