There's a gap between what
I fear and what I think
to fear; there's a night, sure,
between those tiny things
Because to fear is to live,
as the leaf
in the burning forest
still breathing, fearing
not the death, but leaving the living
I do not fear the death
I just fear the night falling over
my sholder, my head; my integrity
what it means being me
I fear those things I'm not certain of
(as the rest of living things I think)
But scarier is to know
that we truely do not know
the certainty of all
the things we say we know
And of all those nocturnal dreads
there are a few that keep me awake
waiting for an answer that will never come
as the lost remembrance of an ancient love
as the farther forefather of a forgotten folk
as the man watching through my window
in a windy storm passing by the city
There's a lot of dreads at the midnight
that keep me awake thinking
about things that I should not
but I think all the condamned
are bound to write about nightmares
and imaginariums that does not belong to us
but yet, they're ours to transform
And maybe one day the dreads will go
far away from our city, as the storm
maybe one day we will burn as the leaf
and then we will stop fearing
what we do not really know