An old love lives be himself neither by refinement nor by presence. Demands and ask for nothing. Waits nothing, but from the vain destiny denies the sentence. The old love have deep roots, made of suffering and beauty. If everywhere time tear down that who was great and glaring, the old love, however, never fade and each day becomes more loving. More flaming, butlackinghope. Sadder? No. He won the pain, and glitter in hismisty corner, so much older as the love it carries... ( Carlos Drummond de Andrade )