What hurts me is not
What is in the heart
But those beautiful things
Which will never be.
What is in the heart
But those beautiful things
Which will never be.
They are the forms without form
That go by without pain
Being able to know
Or love to dream them
That go by without pain
Being able to know
Or love to dream them
They are as if sadness
Were a tree and one by one,
Its leaves were falling
Between the trace and the mist.
Were a tree and one by one,
Its leaves were falling
Between the trace and the mist.
Source: In love with Lisbon
Image taken from here
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