The candle burns bright upon the table
Where the young woman sits, staring outside
Blank pages before her, pen in hand yet unable
Memories of winter eat at her brain
Snow covered street lamps, clouds of breath
Wanders the streets towards a place with no name
She sees the bright sun on his face
But tries to remember what was his name?
And so he walks on, never changing pace
The candle grows smaller in the night
But still the pages remain purest white
Perhaps she won't write the letter
Now he, two floors above remembers it all
The days by the sea he cries "O Dear!"
"Why does our love like wave rise and fall?"
"There are so many roads to choose
In this city that never sleeps
One towards the lover, the others a ruse"
At last the old woman begins to write
The stump of a candle offers little
Her arthritic hands tremble, are slight
She writes the bright sun on his face
Trying to remember, what was his name?
And so he stays, his home is the page.