fading flames

For ernst (happy birthday)

youth is something that you eat
very fast;
then, over the time you see all the things you have eaten,
and some of them you would like to taste again
like the soft skin of a young woman,
like the rain outside your window,
like the pride of a job well done.

what we are is
nothing
but the dance
you once had
soul-stuffed with anger.

What we are
fading flames but flames to the last drop
no mather what;
we don´t give up
marriage is for old people.
But we love setting on cafés
like a sun coming to end.
we love just as much the young love
the strangeness of life
but we are aware that we slide away of that
thing called real
and the pain that lies in the secrecy
of denial;
the way we hunt for the day
should be the way
of getting a good bite
of watery wellbeing,
the spectre or the tale
of growing-old, becoming-someone
surround us
but we pretend not to see, not to hear,
cause we don´t care anymore for pretenses
we comeback to ourselves every second
tenderly waking up alone in bed
smiling perhaps
and in april we stand on the door
with clothes in a poor shape
fading flames
still-yellow-red burning to the last drop.
our hearts flaming-trees with a fruit so sweet,
gently in love with mid-morning.