History of sorrow

The closer to autumn, the closer to the desertI condemn wine or childhood..To tell you: how far you wereHow barren and barren you were.Come closer, so that your garment may rejoice in the memory of my garmentTo tell you what water does not say to waterThe wind does not hesitate to say itAnd the mirrors ignore him,And what is not in the eternal fire.To tell you: the windows that I leftWindows of wood and tears,The streets are made of tar and absenceGardens are couches made of woodThere is a mouth behind my earHe shouts at you to come,And when you overflow from your drunkenness and elationMake your way in us