In each of us there is an immaturity

You looked like a foreigner, maybe even a Scandinavian.
 Snow-white smile, hair that always ruffled the wind
 He spoke broken English and was afraid of thunder
 Never welcomed, excusing himself for not noticing
 
 You made an unbearable tea with bergamot
 Fried eggs because he couldn't cook anything else
 Smoked, something without a filter, the smell of real muck
 Once a month he went to visit his older brother
 
 With the rightness of an animal, so skilfully avoided people
 Didn't make any friends, had a dog that was strong and ill-mannered, like you
 He lived from Monday to Friday, had no ideas for the weekend
 Wore a pager, watched black-and-white movies, and stubbornly did not know how to grow technologically
 
 And he fell in love once a year, each time with the same woman
 You washed the dishes, clumsily broke it, didn't save anything
 Brought a warm blanket, included a record "Beatles", heard for years
 And lived life, and did it not badly, perhaps even better, than you could.