A souvenir meant for nostalgia, Wandering in the old world of catholic conscience, So petite but a requiem to promiscuous melancholy, The first cherries of spring reminds me of her lips, The peaches of autumn are her cheeks, She is the love that dwells on the long forgotten roads…

She is a religion practiced by few, Fading fast to the plastic urban promises, So vintage, her beauty sounds fiction, Can’t separate the maiden from the myth, A fragrance meant for folklore, She is the love long forgotten by the roads…

And to love her is like a journey, Not a casual stroll or an adventure, But a patient walk of a million miles, And slowly her myth unfolds, As she reveals herself in layers, Her beauty has all the shades of life, But I fall short of colours to paint her glory, Oh to love her is like a journey, A journey of a million miles…

And all the falling stars that I saw as a child, I found them at her feet, And my joy to watch her dance, Over them in her Carmel. She is the romance of a winter love story, The picture of a million memories, The blood of God flows through her heart, The space in between her arms, Is the doorway to heaven, The light for my mornings comes from her smile, Oh to love her is like a journey, A journey of a million miles…

A tapestry of the obscure world, Lingering in the dark alleys of life, So anonymous but a grammar placed to perfection, A note so ever present but never read, She is the love long forgotten by the roads…