Andalusian lady. Mad Ireland hurt me into Poetry. Writing songs for ghosts. Guilty for the metaphors. Healing from the cold-ness.
I remember the first time I met youIt was around the time when November mourns the dead.It feels like one year…
Every evening the Sun sinks into soft sheetsmade of pink satinand tangerine muslin.
In front of my windowthere is a golden treeIt is secretly mineI ask, and it gives
Gabriel wanted to knowWhy I was so sad“Some people don´t like meand they treat me bad”