I started late this year:
it was after some days when spring would come to show her face;
and yet the winter.
I started late this night:
(of eighteen days into the march)
no rhyme, no absent-minded sign, no crime into the sun,
no singing for the lost.
I started late this hour.
I started late this life....
this love, this liaison of.
I started late,
but I shall finish amongst the firsts in line...
my poem with no rhyme,
my life - your scent upon my side,
my tries of never ending.
