My eyes overflow tears
which couldn't come before
because of the lack of feelings
– missing feelings.

My hand touches you in vain.
I feel lost, rather alone.
And I'm still human
even without my affection.

My shoulder belongs to you now,
therefore I avoid going away.
I'm sorry, but love is more poetical
across the street.

My words rest in my mouth.
After all, smiling is enough to charm
who the affection could never thrill.
I'm sorry, but I'm more I away from this exaggerate.

When the chaos broke out,
I just ran and shouted;
without knowing where to go,
much less who to call.

There weren't lights in the streets.
The houses catching fire
was what lit me up.

So, decided to sit down
and wait for my awful destiny,
he arose from the floor,
grabbed my hand
and took me away.

Sofia was saved too.
She was afraid.
We all were, but he wasn't…
He promised to save us
and he bravely did,
shedding his own blood.

We used to be just children,
but now that's not important.
They want to change us and hurt us,
and now… nothing is important.

The weren't exceptions.
If you were human,
you would have to rebel.

When the disorder was over,
we just wanted to come back home.
However, we had no more home
and we were no more children.

So full of suffering.
Full of wrong ways
which we follow sometimes.
It's a labyrinth from which
we try to get out,
imagining the other side.

There's only a solution,
one way to be followed
and, maybe, one truth to be proved.
It's a labyrinth in which
we can't bear to live.

Useless wanting to change that reality
– reality purer than happiness.
It's a labyrinth about which
we know nothing.

It's much suffering for little time,
therefore, I'd rather decorate this prison
in order to be able to make it happier.

I don't stay here, because where I always dreamt of being,
life gave to me no chance.

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

The absence of air
affects the lungs,
which stop inflating,
and kills the subject of illusions.

The absence of love,
which is not so fatal,
immortalizes the unemotional
and ponders if in heaven he must be put.

There's a longing
as wilting as flowers
and as old as happiness.

There are colors
which together paint my town
with praises and pains.

II*

There's a new effect:
creepy like fear,
fragile since early
and sad when undone.

There's a new now
which arrives in mind
and explores in it
everything what feels

The absence of us
saddens the unhappy
when there are no advantages,

The absence of what I did,
done alone,
makes useless what is said about flowers.

The empty fills me
as if I had depth;
straight and fast,
yearning some forgiveness.

I can't resist to the hugeness,
however inoffensive it is.

Above me there's a sky
which really seems to be one.
The pale blue charms me
and the irregular white defines me.

I can't resist to time,
however long it is.

My body doesn't need
another surface
to touch...
– just have soul.

I can't resist to loneliness,
however sentimental I am.

Sometimes I wanted to grow up
with the same rapidity used
to fall in love in secret
... forgetting wouldn't be a problem,
on the contrary, it would be a solution.

So dead I lived the past,
hiding in dreams;
and still dead I will live the future,
suffering in nightmares.

Life which I always wanted
was never the same
since the day in which
I got it justly.

And love was never the same
since the day in which it fell
inside the largest infinity:
the regret.

It's an open wound
caused by old yearning
of wanting to live
without even doing it.

Oh it was just a desire,
which like others,
died when finally
was fulfilled by time.

We have no fault
if from life we get
so much illusion;
coming since childhood
and reaching old age.

We have no fault
if current days
make us want
more and more
something better,
fictitious and
pleasant.

To Daniel Nunes*

Before turning on my heart,
I used to walk in the dark.

I learned to love
but not truly.
They taught me to tolerate
but not totally.
I started to shut up
but not eternally.

He's got mysterious eyes
and I can't unravel them.
He's got fleshy lips
and I can't kiss them.

Somebody told me
not to hide my lighthouse.
And away from the universe,
I learned to be true.
Somebody taught me
to bear the loves
but not the griefs.

After turning on my heart,
I started to look for feelings.

I

I don't write poetry,
I just cut phrases in half
and I make them my verses,
confessions and feelings.

I don't create rhymes,
I just join beautiful sounds
and I make them my songs,
hymns and serenades.

II*

I'm not a poet,
I'm poetic.
And when I find my soul,
I will be able to die alone.

I'm not a poet,
I'm an engineer of words.
And when I find my poetic soul,
I will be able to rest in peace.

I

We visited that abandoned house.
We shouted our names for nothing.
We ran through streets before nightfall.
We hoped not to become that being.

Yes, ephemeral was our childhood
therefore I tell it with such elegance.
No, it wasn't a wastage
neitheir became an addiction.

Many envied our joviality
as well as our age.
Many planned our future;
always good and bad, never pure.

II*

They disappeared with his yearnings.
They kidnapped her dreams.
They burned my memories with a candle.
They marked out our soft skin.

In all those years,
I never imagined which getting old
was a problem to solve.
And, looking back, I see us as insane.

Well, we are grown up now
and childhood must become forgettable.
However, it will never be possible...
Remembering all won't be a delay.

The rebellion has gone too far;
it has hurt us cruelly
without truthful reasons.
Oh where are you, Cecilia?

Just wake up, just silence
while we run away,
because finally it's our chance.
Oh where are you, Cecilia?

When everything's ruining
we have to start over
... existing.

When everything's changing
we have to start over
... waking up.

His name is still screamed
in nights of true loneliness.
And the echo is enough
to convince me.

If there was some change,
please keep it safe
like any happening.

The dawn is still admirable
even after its absence.
And at night I miss the whispers:
about her, about me and about us.

If there is a feeling,
please show it to me
and then I'll be more hopeful.

I see the greedy man
whose only son comes
from a curious wish
for money who he already has.

I hear the believing man’s speech:
if there’s nothing in mind,
we will be safe
behind the golden walls.

I touch the cruel man
whose young face
darkens our sky.

I recognize this ****** man
when I realize this mirror,
reflecting what we must remember.

When the lights go out
I am afraid of myself,
my shadow stops walking aimlessly
and my friends become souls.

Stuck to a new thought,
I go through my awareness in hurry.
I don't want to be so slow,
therefore, I don't live such a life.

I didn't still get used to the dawn;
it's so captivating, full of future.
I didn't still get used to lose you.

And here's so dark;
more than the nightfall.
Hard to live, I swear...

Hey Sofia!
Love isn't lost.
It's just missing
as the heart.

You fell in love with him
before the rebellion begins.
He fell in love with you
after his mind changes.

Oh Sofia!
You found love too early.
Too early to feel it.
Too early to suffer for it.

Now he feels nothing but cold.
He hears nothing but whispers.
He sees nothing but salvation.
He loves nothing but survival.

Hey Sofia!
Don't be sad
Loving isn't just an ability, but a gift!
A gift which was forgotten...

If everything is over,
what should I do with these verses?
Should I hide them? Should I tear them?
Should I recite them? Please tell me!

As human as you.
As real as you.
Just not so happy as you,
because of you...

Oh you and your **** belief!
Oh you and your huge cynicism!
Oh you and your small mind!

No form of love is wrong;
wrong is your prejudice, my friend.
Because on the inside we're like this:
no differences finally

Oh, go, Peter, go tell him!
Oh, go, Lucio, go own him!
Oh, go, Renato, go love him!

I don't see why so many worries:
the heart belongs to him, just to him.
Your hostility worries me
and your words scares me.

Oh understand him like a friend yours!
Oh, accept him like a brother yours!
Oh love him like a son yours!

They've been living in a nightmare.
They're always living in a nightmare.
It's always a nightmare in their minds.
Could that nightmare finish?

Oh, Peter, don't go; because loving is not fatal!
Oh, Lucio, don't hide; because you're not an animal!
Oh, Renato, don't be sad; because wrong is not being sentimental!

Those wishes were never fulfilled,
although there were so many lights
announcing the arrival of adulthood
as if it were something to celebrate
inside a body full of sorrows.

Don't wait for me!
Cut your heart in half
and then tear up your soul,
and I'll know if you are ready
to break these chains.

So many promises, so little time;
this thought chases me
even as I chase the wasted years
with a youth based on wished.
Oh so many celebrations, so little time!

Wait another year!
Look at these seventeen candles
and then wait for the last,
and I'll know if you are ready
to wait until the month of June.

If aging means to forget my innocence,
so I get old day by day, without will to take back
everything I lost after some flames were put out.
Flames which celebrate the absence of freedom,
freedom which dies when there's no youth.

Please wait until you get old!
Until there's a solution,
until there's no problem
and I'll ask if you are ready
to blow the candles out.

Uncertainties arise every look:
of doubt, of despise, of madness...
... of fury, of aggression and of extermination.

Offenses are spat out
by similares mouths
to those of whom the words
strike so cruelly.

Too pure for me;
this reality is too terrible.
It makes me die blind of facts
– acts on behalf of peace:
false, inconvenient... and ordinary peace!

Men **** each other every day,
but they never did it so ruthlessly
as they do currently. And all is so insensitive.
I doubt a lot of our hearts.

Reflections are what I have left,
because I'm too fragile to change.
And I don't wanna lose myself in this world
neither I wish to write about its reality.

Too crazy for us;
this thought is too inhuman.
It makes me cry because of acts
– facts told by a bloke:
irreal, stale... and poetic bloke!

The orange paints the clouds
as if it needed some care.
and everything else is painted with darkness.
Then, the sky is a an impressionistic painting.

The light vanishes bit by bit
as a lamp about to burn
and everything else about to rest.
Then, the world is a modern poetry.

The city shivers
as a cold and tender skin
and everything else shivers too.
Then, the doubt is realist prose.

The Sun lies down on the horizon
as a nightly kiss of farewell
and everything else kisses me too.
Then, love is a reciprocal.

At first sight
it might seem tempting.
But we've been fooled for so long
that neither more we care.

My lucid thoughts
I carry inside the pocket
of an old coat,
because I don't wanna seem a philosopher.

We know how wrong is
the way by which we follow.
But the necessity of locomotion is
what provokes that.

We know how useless is
to look for another exit,
another answer or solution,
even knowing that existing is the solution.

Open the windows of your house
through which the wind would never enter.
And then you'll feel on fire
more than in your own home.

Aspirate the smell of the infinity:
pale sky and blinding lights.
Nothing is so restricted,
except your great lovers.

Paint in red to be able to love me.
Paint in yellow to be able to cheer me.
But don't paint in blue. Blue makes me unhappy,
because it's not lovely (like a learner).

Turn on the fire
able to burn this fiction.
Now happiness, now satisfaction;
everything by which I relief.

Turn off the esteem
unable to have you.
And I'm glad to know
that I still know you.

By her heart I was welcomed
and although I have never thanked her
she didn't want to me see lost.

And what would be of flowers
except gifts to dead?

White petals, yellow center;
it's not gift nor flower.
It's daisy, my darling.
That which I'll put in your hair.

And what would be of river
without the ephemerality which it represents?

By his heart I was understood
and although I have gone away
he was willing to answer my request.

And what would be of us
except scared people?

****** wall, cracked wall;
it's not modern art nor delayed.
It's rebellion, my friend.
Reason I follow you.

What would be of world
without disorder which it represents?

I carry with me
secrets which
I've never spread.

I carry with me
hearts which
I've never owned.

I carry with me
passions for which
I've never fought.

I carry with me
friendships of which
I've never felt pride.

I carry with me
truths which
I've never doubt.

I carry with me
feelings for which
I've never waited.

I carry with me
thieves about which
I've never talked.

Men **** each other outside
while we regret their reasons
but we are like them,
we are fated to **** too...
so, we won't be alive at dawn.

and the words are dangerous,
and the screams don't belong to us,
and the souls just evaporates.

Oh kid, you will change this world
but I won't help you
because I don't believe in us...
I just have no faith in us,
I am just fated to get used.

and our hearts are stones,
and our eyes don't cry,
and our mouths are tombs.

Sometimes we are afraid of living
because of those open wounds,
but when you hold my hand
and smile unconcernedly,
I know it was worth to grow up.

and it's worth to live to die,
and it's worth to plan some future,
and it's worth to be a child.

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.

Someday we will rise
until the white clouds
and then from them we will fall down,
because they're fragile when you have them.

A sound which I can't hear.
A color which you can't see.
An aroma which she can't feel.
A surface which we can't touch.

I went in search of those pleasures;
killed by men and buried by time.
But, the great authors' love
it was my great setback.

There's nothing more heavenly,
except knowing which loving is essential
and even not feeling transcendent
being able to love unconditionally.

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!

To anyone*

The warning

Beauty is dangerously fascinating
as well as the person who it dwells.
Therefore, I'm not responsible
for your precocious passions
either your impossibilities.

1st stranger / The worker

A charming smile
able to break down the walls
around my small heart.

So he goes on his own way
as far as he feels more alone.

He's a charm
which, however,
lives in the future.

Oh he's a machine, leastwise
he works at speed of one.

2nd stranger / The sculptress

The dissolved melancholy
in her round face
is extremely rare,
because it's similar to mine.

So many shapes!
So many angles!
So many views!
So many plans!

Oh she suffers of simplicity
inside a world
so complex.

3rd stranger / The dreamer

Eyes of matutinal sky
which once stared at me deeply,
making me daydream on a folly.

A boy who has been abandoned in the desert
(in the desert of awareness).
A boy who has been found at sea
(at sea of unawareness).

I envy his young eyes.
Mindful eyes to everything and everyone.
Eyes with an incredible innocence.

Sometimes I'm like him:
obsessed with folly,
but full of sanity.

4th stranger / The dadaistic

The most beautiful gold wires
sway in front of me
as well as they identify
the person to whom they belong.

However, I don't know why
I've seen her with so much affection.

She's nothing to me.
She doesn't make sense like this.

Perhaps her beauty
is somenthing unique
(and this is worthy of affection
leastwise, of contemplation).

5th stranger / The artist*

When he speaks,
his lips are voluptuous.
and when he shuts up,
they are just lips.

I consider my appreciation
somewhat sentimental
although it is fatal.

I make poetry in pure expression,
requiring to intervene or not.
I'm anxious as well as anguished
and therefore I fall in love
externally and internally
with his impressionist beauty.

Beauty which once I imagined owning
with the same feeling
which I dedicate him this space
from a pretentious poem.

Everyone lies like I lie.
Everyone feels what I feel.
But no one sees what I see...

I was born so sure
that nothing would change my future
to the point of quitting that desire.

I was born someone poetic,
and for being so synthetic,
I couldn't rhyme in a flash.

I cried in an ocean
all the regret of a year.
And now, of boredom I yawn.

I was born from sea,
however, I never made it my home.
I preferred to live in any village.

I was born like this
without fear of going to the end.
Sad even I pant.

My phrases are good,
because they don't have me anymore.
Oh I lost even shame!

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.

I

Every word has a meaning
able to bring up
what is felt and hidden,

but all the words have become useless
and we have become fragile and bitter
just like this world.

II

Every feeling has to be revealed
as the time extinguishes
and the heart stops throbbing,

but all the feelings were oppressed
and we were chained to the world
which is created and destroyed by us.

III

No memory will last until tomorrow
because we changed a lot yesterday
and now we don't even remember our names,

but no memory lasts
because we learnt to forget
everything and everyone.

IV

No name will be shouted
when something happens to us
because we never met,

but no name is shouted
as the name of that who allows us shout
(and some still believe in men).

V*

Every life fades away
when we see it as something forbidden,
something accostumed to finish.

No existence will last...
I know that because I used to exist
and as a human, you too.

I once heard a scream
from inside me.
So I opened my heart to the world,
in order to silence it,
but the world wasn't enough.

It sounds like celestial
but it's just natural.

I once missed places
where I have never been.
So I closed my eyes,
in order to forget them,
but forgetting wasn't enough.

It sounds like an anthem
but that’s not what I imagine.

I once got bored
with all the city’s noises.
So I ran into the woods,
in order to find satisfaction,
but isolation wasn’t enough.

It sounds like the sea
but it travels slowly.

I once heard the birds
and I decided to follow them.
So I chose to love unconcernedly,
in order to retrieve my humanity,
but not even love was enough.

It sounds like peace
*but that’s not what it brings.

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.

Maybe I've not woken up
so promptly.
Maybe I've not silenced
so prudently.
Maybe I've never listened to you.

"The deep cut
is not the only pain
felt in this world.
Do something lovely,
otherwise, I get confused."

I hear the orchestra play.
It announces tragedy
which I persisted in not to remember;
however, the symphony describes that day:
too many suspended melancholies in the air.

I asked you not leave like this
and you asked me to be courageous.
And suddenly, the explosion took you from me
as well as from your pleasurable love.
How can I go on without one for whom I came?

Regretting is out of time
– empty thing, rather unstable.
Staring at the sky, I remember the words of yore:
"the dawn is so admirable
after the night goes away."

He's got mysterious eyes
which stare at me directly.
He's got fleshy lips
which bite dangerously.

Here comes an unexpected feeling;
somewhat predictable before us.

He's got a smile
whose simplicity charms me.
He's got a heart
whose size I don't care.

Here comes an unbecoming feeling;
unbecoming to the mind, but not to the flesh.

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!

Nor the greatest of prophets
would be as insane as me.
Nor the greatest of poets
would tell who I'm like Romeu.

From the mouth, it jumps verses
which carefully invade your soul,
while time follows calm
with the scattered poems.

Cecilia, through your feeling
I could find some solution
for all my suffering.

But I get sad with a memory
– that in which I was thrown to the wind...
So, the way is having no heart.

In the north, the rain is white,
the floor is covered with clouds,
the wind tears the skin and
the cold invades the body.

In the south, the rain is just rain,
the floor is covered with dust,
the wind blows as a breeze and
the cold kisses the body without warning.

In the north, men wear black suits,
they walk on dry cement,
they have a future since the cradle and
they are just men...

In the south, men wear suits,
they walk on wet cement,
they have a future when they dream and
they are also just men...

All over the world, the seasons are different,
the small and great feelings are different.
Even men are different! however, they're present,
making time our only distance.

To Drummond*

And now, Carlos?
I had friends, I had family,
I had peace and love.
I just didn't have time
to remember all.

And now, Carlos?
I was son, I was grandson,
I was husband and father.
I just wasn't boy,
boy to live unhappy.

And now, Carlos?
I learnt to speak, I learnt to rhyme,
I learnt to grow up and see the world change.
I just didn't learn to live
as everybody expected to see.

And now, Carlos?
I was born in Bahia, I was born in Brazil,
I was born in America and in the world.
I just wasn't born in the universe
(and this has no meaning).

And now, Carlos?
I'm old, I'm grizzled,
I'm useless and I'm a poet.
I'm just not a child,
because I disobeyed the heart.

I'm always surrounded
by any people
who never wanted to be happy
in their own destiny.

It boils in me
the will of the traveler
of wanting to leave
every moment

I've never been in other place,
except those in which I needed to be
– just for necessity... nothing else.

To Montreal I've never traveled,
but it must be better than here.
And maybe any place is that:
a refuge to the excess of monotony.

Lying on the cool floor
and hoping that the locomotive
crossed our view,
we realize what the older enjoyed.

Gray stones show us
how much the landscape changed.
And too late the people wake up,
and too early the people discuss.

It was the fear and disdain
which provoked a bitterness
able to tear us apart from our friends.
It was the insanity of the visitors
which limited the peace of those faces.
It was a fool humanity
which deprived the happiness of those children.

At nine o'clock, the lights are gone out.
I come back home in a fog,
being followed by screams of loneliness
and, often, screams of panic.

At ten o'clock, I covet the sleep,
the tomorrow, the old age, but not the death!
Because even being sorrounded by madness,
I still hope a solution.

At eleven o'clock, my ravings drive me away.
Now I run the first escape from this prison,
destroying this forsaken wall.

At twelve o'clock, I delight to a deep pleasure
and I try to remember what I did in that dawn.
However, it seems to be an unreachable memory.

Inside this abyss:
aversions don't disappear,
memories don't return
and lovers don't survive.

We're the young who throw
their sorrows in the ocean.
What might be the world's ******,
now is hidden
by the cruelest minds.
Bring to my feet the best of the infinity:
forgotten promises and inappropriate feelings.

From the window I watched the bricks fall
like leaves of a pleasant autumn.
It shivered the skin and silenced the screams,
screams of exaltation now.
And the escape is not needed anymore.

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.

The wrinkled fingers get *****
with the dusty objects.
The memories get *****
when it talks about the wins.

– Noise is big, but the heart is more.

I'm too old for the world
and the world is too old for me.
Don't think I'm deep man,
because I'm not, at least not like this.

– I'm bored therefore I write you.

Without me the machine doesn't express itself
and therefore it stops existing in hurry.
Oh let this pass!

– It's over, Vicent, it's over! You're gone and now I am.

It always sounds in vain,
trying to say their names with affection.
Oh please let them in peace!

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 / Passion

I never met someone
who I could fall in love with
– abandoned, it was what I said,
trying to fool the *****.

Crazy is the foreigner's heart
who I allow myself to fall in love with,
even if I've already been born
with dead heart
– peaceful, it was what she said,
trying not to delude me.

Hollow is the lady's heart
who pretended to love without being loving
– convinced, it was what I said,
trying to forget her.

I never met you sentimentally,
because in life, we have to go and find
the best of each day
which fills empty of our hearts,
otherwise, we will die unhappy
– charmed, it was what she said.

II / Consideration

I died with
what people appreciate a lot,
and gradually I realize how
irrelevant my despair was.

Gratitude is maybe what I must feel...
although there's a bigger feeling.

III / Promise*

I'll walk through lonely streets,
trying to forget what I felt
while I expect infinity of my heart
finish and change to better.

Yes, my dear, I can be happy.
No, my dear, your words don't scare me.
Yes, my dear, there's a real *****.
No, my dear, it's not metallic like yours.

If the heart belongs to me,
it will love who I want
because I choose who
I will fall in love with.

If the heart is not yours,
don't try to change mine
because I choose the way
how I will love others.

The feelings are infinite
just like the search for them
but I am not infinite
neither patient.

I am mortal, made of flesh;
flesh which rots.
I am prone to the forgetfulness.,
therefore, my search dies with me.

Hey Eduardo!
Your name won't be forgotten.
It will echo through our heads
as well as screams of despair.
It will invade our hearts
as well as old lovers.

Where are the moments
which stab the chest,
investigate the body
and fill it with sorrow?
Where did they go?
Where are they?

Oh Eduardo!
I can't be courageous;
not after seeing you so cold.
She can't stand upright;
not after having her heart broken.

So much time penetrated the darkness
made you wish one last will;
– almost unreachable, almost in vain...
I hope they know how to be sensitive,
because I really don't know what else I must feel.
Oh too many words dissolved into a simple yearning!

To a friend*

I'm ready to travel
through your person.
I'm ready to unveil
your dirtiest secrets.
I'm ready to rediscover
the role of soul
– heart and feelings.

And if you still believe
who I'm an astronaut,
I ask you, my dear,
not to lose your faith in it.
Because even though I'm not one,
I like to pretend in order to cheer you up.
And we need to be more heavenly!

Looking for something better
than the existence of us two.
I'm just looking for something
which makes me stay longer.
Looking for something worse
than the absence of us two.

We've had something...
something easy to love,
but, easy to lose.
We've had everything...
and neither that was enough.
We've had nothing...
nothing by which to remember.

From the top of the cliff
I saw your body kiss
the ground with the loathing
of those who despises air.

Happily
I was in a dream,
remembering of whom I go along with
and stopping him going, even he tries.

Sometimes was loneliness
your most vain desire;
regretting for living,
but being unable to die.

Oh awful end!
On the road I found you,
dead with all I taught you.
And your pain made me live for myself.

He found a better solution.
He didn't want to change.
He softened his pain,
but he didn't want to wait…

This has never been a pleasure
neither has been lost.
Fact is what must be,
although it has already been.

We had something ephemeral,
which soon it would be gone
just like every euphoria,
bringing sorrows in great care.

None of us has
chances to escape,
but it makes so well
just imagining.

Without words I am
when I see what you loved.
Without hopes I exist
when there's nothing else besides this.