the greys invade a corner of my eye
and spreading quickly, conquer the whole view
the roses that I brought soon lose their hue
and not a minute yet since your goodbye
I glance around our favorite café
the place where I first dared to hold your hand
the words -- it's over -- silencing the band
I see them but I cannot hear them play
the waiter's saying something, it appears
"would that be all, sir" penetrates at last
I look at him, incredulous: how fast
is everyone to celebrate my tears
my senses start recovering their cues
the band is playing Armstrong, but of course
the trees outside turn green, and his voice, hoarse
sings of red roses -- those don't lose their hues
Author notes: wc 126
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