Blowing Pink-Colored Kisses
I am blowing pink-colored kisses,
where the winter's wind hisses,
hoping they will reach its destination and smell like daises
that we picked along our way to the pine-covered hills;
and coming down we stared into each other's eyes as passion engulfed us,
and that desire was as intense as the reddest sunset ever seen in the western skies.
I cannot touch or feel her now, yesterday was very brief,
but my consolation is the vision which appears
through the moonbeams of the ascending moon;
Venice never looked so resplendent over the deserted lagoon...
why isn't silence broken by the voices of lovers? It would be a relief!
Should I gaze into the darkness, pierced by gleams of moonlight, and not shed tears?
The bridges over the old canals sadly miss those lovers' whispers,
as they beg the fading stars to wait a little longer, or until it's dawn...
I am the only one standing there, blowing pink-colored kisses
that only owls see as they wonder what's like to feel love in such a tender way;
and like me they dream in the rising mist of a city which regrets its faded glory
as I regret not being with my pretty darling whose sweet devotion is never outgrown.
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