Suddenly it is there, the face made of years, of disappointments, of gray hours and showing the lines that a few too many betrayals put there, we are looking into the mirror...

In the mirror and looking back at me
was a expressionless man, very old,
having besides him a little window
from where to see inside his soul...

there was brewing, by some long time,
perhaps the mother of all the storms,
with bitter tears falling like rain
from the darkness of the blackest clouds;

thunder will come drumming then,
in the shape of every painful sob;
what to do with so much passion
if there never was, or will be, any love?

cry old man, cry, until the eyes are dry
and there's nothing left but empty words
to remind you that the flesh of your heart
was converted into a pulsating rock.