But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Today. The same blossoms are enfolded by a whimsical springsnow.

Turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
I watch the roses of the day grow deep.
- E. E. Cummings

One pierced moment whiter than the rest.

Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience.

He would always laugh and say:
"Remember when we used to play?"

Come d'inchiostro nero.