Jazz session

It will be because I do not believe in time,
I still await a challenge from you,
or some word of encouragement,
accompanied by a smile,
and what I know,
a long silence almost perfect,
to later play to be bohemians.
A trumpet sounds,
far between clouds of colors,
I close my eyes, it's jazz, I think,
I'm sure you interpret it,
soft, accompanying the memory,
of tears that cry inside.
The palette recovers the talent,
sublime passion of your hands,
when the sun takes a break,
changing your routine today,
to invite us to the game,
to demolish the old mills.
Dad is not fair, he is not,
that your steps do not return,
that being so big you are not,
seeing the other side of the moon,
sitting in the same square,
without tomorrow being yesterday.
Once and again I think,
in the anarchy of feelings,
the rebellion of discontent,
that starts from the heart,
and it's not fair that it's true,
if I was just learning,
to find the way,
where to start the flight.
Dad, sometimes I'm scared,
that the angels do not exist,
that are not playing in heaven,
probably because of that,
I'm afraid it's not you,
that angel that I think I have.