We see them everyday we go through any park, any bench.
Lonely, looking at the world from somewhere inside, with an kind of lost expression.
They are us tomorrow, because nobody really has love without losing it sometime ahead.
And that is the mother all of pains.

Green walls of leaves everywhere
he came here in spring, never alone,
besides she sat commenting
with that sweet, low level voice,
about the last year’s flowers and
how its children had come to bloom;
she will take his hand between hers
to feel the strength, his love.

Now, nobody is sitting there, alongside,
taking his hand, now getting cold,
for the absence of that little warmth
from little hands which were getting old
but never failed to search one of his
to get on her weakening the support
of an strong arm around the shoulders
reassuring her with a tender comfort.

Green walls of leaves everywhere,
he wasn’t there, I found the bench alone
after seeing him day after day, waiting,
the sadness was there, the flowers in bloom;
a withered bouquet of sweet memories
perhaps was waiting for him at home,
when his heart got tired of waiting
he couldn’t came back…anymore.

Getting old and having just a bench where
he could browse their memories, alone,
waiting for her lovely hands warmth touch,
then, one day he stopped to come,
leaving that bench full of emptiness,
perhaps he couldn’t wait no longer,
or, as they say in so many love songs
his heart couldn’t wait no more.