Swims in the old paper, the lonely mermaid, among the blank pages of stories unwritten, without ink rocks and islands of salvation.Covers her chest with a tremor of the hand, while frees melody, protecting a thrill with the glamor of fear.The air and water meet in the islands of ice.The song is drowning in milk with no flavor, no fumes brackish evoked by the tempered wave.The sea is empty, no lowing of the wind to push bold dreams of wood and cloth.The song is weak, without tattooed sailors and mirages.Supports the scales where she can not fall.The tail does not glitter without orbits the sun and looks grainy, unadorned, without laces.Soothes the desire because she can not seduce.There's the blue abyss to forget.A parchment without chests to open, no eyes drawn, without arms, without passion.The hand lost, looking for the warmth of her breast, left without a man.The mouth that speaks, the mouth whispering, the mouth kissing, is a ship that does not pierce the horizon inches.Then, there's just that little white ocean, of sea-paper to disappear: then drowns the mermaid, and drowns the woman.