You and I are nothing.

Together the world does not recognize us.

And, let me tell you, it is wonderful to live like this:

We are free.

Free, I tell you!

Neither we float nor breathe, nor aspire. Why to worry about something if doing it will convert us on somebody and the others want us without being or existing.

Nobody wants to love us, they prefer us that way.

Nothing.

Like this.

No word: there is no adjective nor noun that defines us.

We are this and that, whatever we want to be and do.

If the maximum capacity of an elevator is "four people" and within it there are two in front of us and the box stops to pick up two more, they come in because they do not want to believe we exist.

We are gods.

And if we are gods (for universal balance) we are also counterpart.

It is only our decision.

(...)

En los bastiones ya no se habla de guerra
ni de estrategias para amar.

Sin hierro no hay armas para forjar
y sin ellas cómo es que piensas siquiera en ganar.

No tiene sentido seguir
intento fallido tras intento fallido.

Si al final no recuerdas al menos, cariño,
por qué comenzó la pelea en primer lugar.



Pero si a ver vamos podría ser
que los genios en el tiempo están destinados a ser rivales y solo eso.

Por eso quizá solo estaremos en absoluta paz
únicamente en los momentos que te pienso.

(Sin terminar).

We are already rich,
but it is not truth.
Thus he just breaths money,
the kid will wake up in the desert.

It is a lie
from uptown.
Even though the oil splashs
the myth it is not truth.

We ran out of water
and the tears
have now
a price.

Will you be able
to pay
or will you beg
to the foolish and old ***** people.

So yes, we are rich,
but it is not truth.
Darling,
we have not even a cent.

Since the beginning of our time
we have gotten everything from them.
Everything we have asked for
have been given to us.

...

There is no divine justice
that rescues.

Across the mirror,
waiting for us, is another idiot.
I can guess that he anticipates
a mistake from me.

An absurdity that would be a
hopeful for him.

Too bad you are
the punisher
when judging
is all you do.

In this land there is no divine justice
to rescue us.

If you are the true gods
we have to adore,
I declare myself a non-believer
of terror and evil.

Exile me and see how
each pillar will follow me.

Suddenly everything that you depend on
will disappear.
Sooner or later your infrastructure
will cede somehow.

It was expected:
I even saw it coming from afar.

But who would believe it...
Now look at you,
who is hiding
waiting for the earth to swallow him.

Just remember that there will not be
a miracle to save you.

How does it feel to be on the other side and be reflex?
Do not tell me, you will not be judged
because the gods sleep today.

Wake up from the lethargy and work
because the divine justice and the rescue
are in a coma and it will take a lifetime for them to arrive.

When you're sitting
two grids away from being able to
enter your home,
getting cold and looking

ants walking
up and down your way,
forward and back again and again,
you realize everything.

All the important.

When you see three butterflies flying and
blindly going down
toward the light that will burn them...
At that point you know you are nothing.

Nothing important.

You are alone.

The butterflies were three and they went together.
The ants walked as one.
And you are nothing because you are alone.

And nobody cares.

The one who walks
is tired,
she is about to lose her energy.

She moves between mines
frightened,
whenever is day or night.

A step she takes,
a lost of health,
a step she takes,
another light goes out.

Her life,
it dies
slowly around every corner.

She leaves herself in broken pieces
on sidewalks
and in front of windows.

One girl, a mine,
shivering and swearing
almost without legs
that the lighted city still looks dark.

Her who walks
almost without life
looking for a way out.

Footprints that burn.
So many cousins,
but no help.

A lost one
who found with
-and took for guide today-
the moon.

Come back loved;
come back, dear.
Come back.

If you move,
if you wrap again,
you see it rains and...

Just one last time
let yourself go and you will see
that with you the desire of continuing to live and walk
will be back.

The literature is in the leaves.
In my reading there are red spots
regardless of the page I choose.

Those with paint
of other colors
ripped me or are broken.

Look at them down the river,
made boats that do not float.

But I trust.
I trust in that child
that will find my Santa María.

And the day that I see him
being the captain and author
who scores down the chronicles of what will happen.