There was a day
in which I chose
dying alone.
No stories
to tell
or passions
to recall.

But then I remembered
who like man
I lived nothing worthy.
Now I ask:
why to die?

They charged me so much
of little I had,
that I was forced to sell
my own happiness
to get peace.

There was another day
in which I preferred
to become a runaway
to live sad.
I'd be chased,
however, I'd be happy
with my soul.

It's well-known
which mediocre smile
of any man
can't be replaced
by all this world's wealth.

Unless it is natural beauty,
it's not worthy to admire
the colors of the ascent.

But there was a third day
in which I rendered
to the bitter of the future...
without asking why.

I don't know what to be near me
because I spent all my time,
trying to survive the social voracity.

Even with the ****** floor,
everyone continues walking.
The death of another man
is nothing compared
to the lack of time

Such is the pain
which we pretend to bear
so that they don't forget us.
Such is the happiness
which we pretend to have
so that they remember us.

… well, I shut up
in front of the beauty
of my lands…

I don't know how to be who I am,
because long time ago I was hipnotized
by the exterior of this world
– and such is its vivacity.

Although there's so much
to appreciate
quietly,
I can't stop
thinking of us.

However much the sumptuous flowers
are things to dream about,
we should not forgive us
so naturally,
especially with
so many open wounds.

Words are enough
to love those who
have never loved
truly.

The time is enough
to heal who
the love never hurt
mercilessly.

Hands are enough
to keep safe
those who
have never been
so scared.

The shoulder is enough
to give console
to whom never was
so sad.

The nature is enough
to surprise who
always lived far from the world
–  the real world.

I

Write parnassian verses under my skin,
because today I don't want something meaningful,
but detailed and rational.
I'll be impassible, but objective.

Nobody was never as memorable as you,
maybe for having been someone sincere.
So sincere that even I recall your poems:
loose phrases in old papers.

I feel like we've never met
when suddenly we began
to seek perfection of words.

I feel like we've been lost
inside a world
which doesn't value us.

II

Write symbolist verses under my skin,
because today I don't want something realist,
but dreamlike and mysterious.
I'll be suggestive, but subjetive.

Nobody was never as sentimental as you,
maybe for having been someone crazy.
So crazy that even I admire your lack of lucidity,
declaimed by sung verses.

I feel like we've never met
when suddenly we began
to reject our own reality.

I feel like we've been lost
inside a world
which doesn't satisfy us.

III*

There's no perfection in those verses
just like there are no colors in that life.
And I feel like we've been lost
when, in fact, we've been free,
because we're freer
when we're alone.

To the pacient poet,
who saw the world falling into perdition,
I, another young, I say to you which nowadays
everything's much more lost.

Perhaps above our heads there's peace.
However, each day which passes
I start to believe much more
in the pessimism which Assis
nurtured for so long.

I never did my words of others' actions,
because in the midst of such human evolution,
I believe, then, in the need for innovation
which we are charged daily.
Nevertheless, I can realize the insignificance
of this my thought
when suddenly
I become the direct agent.

We move with such stupidity
that I doubt our rationality
I'm sorry for getting only negativity,
but the deeds are disgusting
and who'll say about reasons?

I see the kids running
without even knowing what happens
and I can't feel another thing
except pity and will to try to change
the awful future which we'll let them.

When that secret war comes back,
my hope shrinks and vanishes.
When misery prevails
my disgust grows.
When the innocent die,
and they treat them disdainfully,
my hand sweats and shakes;
it shakes more than it sweats
and it sweats more than it writes.

The palace can't collapse
Because it's more important
for this country's beauty
than the own survival.
While everything collapses outside,
we protect the coffers;
after all, the future is so close!

Like a ghost
they start to treat you.
Now you're useless
and, for society,
a form of vile life.

Everywhere what we see
is the past come back
the same mistakes being made
and the same lies being told.

Everything has suddenly changed
and nor children can be saved
Everybody has talked about justice,
but nobody sees the problem.
And each said word by them
is corrupted by this obsession.

Get rid of this holy book
and go live naturally.
Get rid of this fool thought
and say something inteligent
Please, get rid of this obsession
and stop being inconvenient.

I'm nostalgic about people,
because I lost a lot of them.
And since the first beliefs,
we were being controlled;
however, if they make you well,
I won't be who will prevent you
to believe freely in them.

The Institution speaks behind masks;
without apparent guilty or logic.
It's hard to breath corrupted air
and it's harder not to want to be alone.

I've got inside me
the idea of lucidity.
In my dreams
we're still pure.
In them we can choose
what had better suit us.

Without melodies in words,
we modify the wonderful daydream
which one day we doubted exist.
So, sweat drips slowly by the body
until touching in this drought surface.

Outside, the cold embrace us strongly,
and drops under the skin become,
again, sudden wishes.
Know that even though I have done
several trips inside this place,
I feel ready to go for real;
forgetting all the anguishes.

During sleep which city had,
a pale face was watching me.
And it was fragility of its eyes
which captivated me, and once,
it was the tenderness in its voice
which woke me up.

The anxiety invaded our minds,
making us die of melancholy.
This is so stunning
which I lose myself in life
while I try to live it.

However, your sighs finished
and I heard someone talking next to me:
'a little caress would do well.'
Declaimed the wild heart
which long time it felt lonely
for never having been treated with sincerity.

They taught us
this form of love,
now we depend on it.
They prepared us
to support all,
except our own feelings.
They promised us something different,
but my eyes only see
the monotony which the world's become.

Such love came too fast
and with it an irreparable pain.
We should have lived longer
before dying in the dark.