I / Before

I moved slowly,
always wanting to reach
the end of the narrow roads.

I found deceptions and satisfactions;
more deceptions than satisfactions
and more plurals than singulars.

I coveted everything
beyond these high walls,
even so I didn't rush my life.

I believed in other people's beliefs
and I hoped which from me
the time to slip away... killing me, then.

II / During

However, neither it I could get.
I followed so many ways
and neither they could help me.

Ocasionally I sighted daisies
blossoming on the walls
and among the tiles of the streets.

Sighting so many daisies was madness.
Well, to hell with sanity!
And what would be of life without its paradoxicality?

Much suffering for little time!
Little contemplation for much beauty!
Much anguishe for little heart!

III / After*

Oh, the other side:
feared by a few,
coveted by others.

Although the labyrinth
seems infinite and sufferable,
we can find the exit together.

The question is not how we can get out,
reaching, at last, the afterlife;
and yes, how we can end with so much suffering.

To start over, we must wake up!
To wake up, we must exist!
And like this, life will wait for us!

Among the wagons
I found the affection
which one day made me cry.
And maybe that has never been
pure enough.

If I were a foreigner,
I could steal your kindness.
But I know you so well
that I hesitate to behave like this.

When the days darken,
not up to eyes one solution.
However, for them,
we should be dancing
without fear of falling asleep
in a brave world
which doesn't stop spinning.

I saw my friends
walk aimlessly
carrying on their faces
the picture of deception.

I felt safe for not having surrendered
as well as I felt sad for them,
because they had a hole in their *******
so much that they risked their hearts.

The despair took over of my hands,
and even with homesick,
I wished an escape abroad again,
because here sorrow was done.

I never imagined
my memories returning;
they're so fragile which prevent us
to live peacefully.

Hiding from the storm
is just another form of melancholy
which our parents avoid having.
Fleeing this suffocation,
they still blame us
by all this city's fears.

So, on behalf of my friends,
I ask you to there are no regrets
and I ask you to give support to their bodies.

Your supplications were believable.
Now, they're just ambitions.
I don't know if I should worry,
but, while they don't hurt
our wrists like punishment,
I will feel safe near you.

From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
From love's deep slumber and from death,
For lo! the treees are full of sighs
Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.

Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
Where softly-burning fires appear,
Making to tremble all those veils
Of grey and golden gossamer.

While sweetly, gently, secretly,
The flowery bells of morn are stirred
And the wise choirs of faery
Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.