Pale skin
as black as the pupils staring,
─abyssal waters reflecting the space─
infected by dark blood infused
with a silver needle.

Was the canvas blank in its genesis,
for The Painter to leave imprints,
the fertile land now shrinks
as grows the shadow.

Though, distinct are the beauties,
and in the homogenous mass
of interwoven living forms
each of them outshines the rest
─with its darkness─
when the eye halts,
when the focus is trapped;
trapped and submerged in the story.

At length, of life
the host is corpse.
The drawing is complete,
no spaces to fill,
and the useless body
occupies its place in the cemetery.

Chimneys and chimneys of thoughts
expel to the saturated atmosphere
tension and discomfort
that poison the factory workers with fear
to cut the flow of oneiric smoke
and interact.

Imprisoned inside the glass and metal fence,
pushing away petrous gargoyles,
the overbooked air, thick and dense,
expands as pressure rises
with too much thinking
and too little talking.

But the doors open and there's a leak
as the seats their captors release,
some of who, immersed in their abstraction,
forget that's time for the sentence to cease
while the subconscious arises.

Only when the mind gears stop and leave,
leaving emptiness in the wagons,
so does the tangible machinery
and the train rests, peacefully,
at the end of the line.

Some are fearful of opening boxes
closed and sealed long ago,
scared of the stream which,
freed from its prison of oblivion,
may leave them wet of feelings.

Some are afraid of solstices and equinoxes,
of the time when the sun touches the
ground,
of the different shades of the nightsky
in cyclic and never-ending succession...
of the sound of sand against the glass.

Like a vessel weathering
the rising and falling mountains
of a tempestuous sea,
whose captain roars, wrathful,
though never yearns for blue skies,
do not ever shrink back at this metamorphic existence!

And you, my friend, oh be brave!
Do not cry the losses,
not in excess,
do not ever feel sorrow for that old past!

Live like water,
whom gravity forces to sinuously descend,
yet it beats all its enemies in the way
to the restful sea of joy.

But you, oh my friend, be brave!
Do not be fearful of change...

...because change is what we call life.

The film just ended
and I am faithfully here,
waiting.

Independently of my dependence on you
and that now
I am not concerned about my concerns,
I wait, for your message

because I have sacrificed quite a bit
for such an uncertain reward as your love might be
—I almost wrote lofe—,
and waiting for a reply is a bit quieter.

I'm sure you must be busy,
I am busy too,
thinking 'bout you,
waiting
like I have been for months I guess,
till you realised that
I am not the only one in need of the other.

During this wandering,
'Have you answered?'
that's my ocassional wondering,
but I check, and you haven't.
Doesn't matter. I just wanted to write
while I wait. Somewhat patiently.
(Laughs)

However, it is close to 01:30, thus,
as said my role, Demetrius,
in our adaptation or version:
"I'm tired. I think I'll get some rest."

At the precise hour,
known only by the silent beings which may rule our fates,
the Path is started punctually
by the walker, not sauntering,
fully purposefully marching
towards the unclear end
of this sinuous track
that is not yet built but
already walked,
with no guidance, no map,
for they are useless in this road
-should that be learnt by everyone-
the only help for the determined
Walker
is to recall that they know how to walk,
and so,
step one foot after the other
until they arrive at the destination;
successfully.

I woke up this morning
and found a tree in my yard.
It was yellow as corn in
the trunk, soft and hard.

There I planted once a tree,
though Death took it, never grew.
Now I stand in front and see
it; appeared out of the blue.

Lovely is my tree of gold,
has a branch from which will hang a swing,
motionless when outdoors is cold,
dancing blissfully in spring.

And I will wipe its golden tears,
and watch that no one cuts it down.
I'll guard my tree for many years,
behold its ever-changing gown.

But I blink.

Cold and sudden blows the wind
and the trunk now seems like rotten
while all leaves fall and spin.

My tomorrow hopes become forgotten
as I see the wood bend and bow
and my helplessness burns like molten.

The night, black as a crow,
covers the corpse-to-be
that's waiting impatiently in the death row.

With a distinct cracking sound,
the omen bird takes flight.
I do not weep and do not cry
while I get inside my house so warm,
it's the second time I see it die,
having not lived nor even been born,
and I ran out of tears the first time.

In the kingdom of blue and grey
sadness tints
the emotionless hearts of men
just willing to go to sleep.

Days are to be hated,
looking in anger at the black daysky
from the insides of our caverns,
away from the hurting rain
which wears out feelings.

And we'll gather around the fireplace,
sinking our hearts in liquid darkness
that lights them up
while peeking into other worlds.

But the dreary atmosphere
still be poisoning our souls,
the ghostly shades of them,
leftovers of our true selves,

Then, go to bed and sleep!
Give up! And in your fortress
of sweet soft blankets,
dream of a new dawn
in a new kingdom.