He spoke like he never had a voice
He touched as if he didn't have a touching sense
He gazed upon her look, preaching himself to stop
Since when he started, to use old metaphors
To create the already made images that are bounded in our
mind

She touched him, with a little affection
He lowered down his helmet, waiting for a kiss
His lips, with a single flare of passion and valor
Winded down to hers

Walking a dirty path, since the dream is not real
Holding armor in one hand, a flower in the other
Both are firmly made, one is stronger

The paper is slowly dying
and the bravest pencil, marching with valor

Is fading among the black lines