The years write us The days read us How strange! Each time we are a different text Green, immature, spoiled, grown-up, grey, lacking melody We are erased by rubber and Tippex We are crossed out with the letter X Lines on lines are rubbed out What has been left is deformed What was original has only a trace What was a favourite has broken rhymes We are only a palimpsest of our own times How strange, love! The years write us Without permission, without mutual opportunity The days read us like broken lines Neither do I recognise myself Nor before-ten-years you I recognise neither the moon of your face Nor the stars of your looks Neither the melody of the heart Nor the drum of the road I look at my portrait, I look at your picture Is it change, catacomb, or a song of nostalgia? I hear a remote echo I call it. It does not recognise and respond. What a fate to become a stranger to you What a journey to leave yourself behind?