After seeing Ingmar Bergman's Summer Interlude

In the dream it was one of those sunny days,
childish chuckles were heard,
scarves or coats were nowhere to be found,
the heartbeats in the speed of the shore-washing waves;
no it wasn't a nightmare like one of these freezing nights,
tanks and shorts were worn,
sweat and hot summer breaths, hmm,
the feet couldn't help
but dancing to the nostalgic rhythm.

Everything stops. It's the indifferent winter.
It's quiet as an untroden planet,
where the air is as cruel as the unsaid goodbyes.

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