In front of ashes, I stood,
flowers of anemone of wood
beneath an arms of red and gold.
I placed the bullet from the wound
on the cover where ashes stood.


As I sat beside the ashes,
cups of coffee my hands caress,
I placed one at its side, hoping
that you could be with me again.
But all were already written.


One could rewrite this sad story,
. . . it won't be the same memory.
. . . it won't be your true legacy.
. . . it won't be the reality.
All's but a fleeting history.


In front of ashes, I stood,
flowers of anemone of wood,
I bid adieu and wore my hood
as I left the place for damn good.
I tried to smile; it was no use.