He is married. It is like a loss. "He is married," like a knife in the heart. And now the doors are closed to me And our bridge was burned to the ground.
He is married, but friends will not tell me So that no blood gushes out of the wound. Only a balm carefully lubricated, And in the morning: "Make us coffee."
He is married. You won’t come, as before And you won’t say: "Hello! How are you?" Not sick. No cold, no cough I just died for him.