We are not many, Only departures fill the meaning of the stops, But we occupy enough sits to be a few And for the distention of a silence of simple sounds. The dimension of the others ItΒ΄s not much more than departures and destinies.
For now, we are only illuminated By the last orange lights of another village. All of us abstain from the others, Not too much, Not to the point of forgetting from the their presence, Until the next straight road shrinks us With one more gush of blackness.
(Warm lights Emanate a comfort Shared by all.)
The journey stretches along the premature winter night, The bus goes embroiled By the sequence of light and darkness And we go with it. Each variation in the spectrum of luminosity forms a layer, More the layers, more the bus is light and darkness, Thicker the journey and the denser the enchantment. The countenances gain new expressions As they cross the contrasts, Though the looks never fail to gaze the vast night. The looks⦠The looks on the scattered night, The night profoundly diluted in the existence of things, That form the whole.
(Fingers on the glass Searching for memories - They only want life.)
One by one, they leave. The sleeping consciousness wakes up, From the breaking out of the world, For the bus stop. What do they take with them? Where and for what they go? Do they really want to go? They all fade away in the distance. There will be no one who wishes, Like me, an endless night So that the bus can go without destination? Time does not even have to stop, Just a single belonging to that bus.
I should not say it, However i only want the outside life outside of me, A mutual indifference Than can fall asleep all the fatigue and exhaustion. Let me turn into a silent echo to resound indefinitely, In the vastness of the night.
(Eternal night Raises chimeras seeing Some solace.).