We went every day in the garden of the Palais-Royal. Sitting on a bench, fixed iron green, we watched the cloud of pigeons and at times their voracious sexual rides. And the peace sought in this fortress was parasitized by the deafening roar of the tank sand. The ball shovels and duvets prints will not deter us from our pleasure to stay together, without words, just looks shaped smile. We were happy there, unmoved, knowing that our fate was sealed in the garden. We exchanged our first kiss under the arches and since this garden became the guardian of our oath of love. Despite failing my hip, she held my arm up to our bench, united in the effort and pain in our body reeling. She walked straight and I often staggered like a puppet show. But today I was dreaming again, my wife, my fawn had lost his ashy blonde mane. I miss her a lot my sweet companion, I stand still, and every day, I'll sit on my bench, on our bench.
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