Who knows when the twilight breaks?
Or the exact moment when the day begins?
Or why a perfume and not another?
What's in that look that calls me?

I know little and it's worth little.
Life keeps giving me questions
and I'm just a wasteland ...
only for minimal instants,
I saw the miracle blossom in me.

Of the pressing times,
and from the same backwaters,
of that delicate and ungraspable second,
I hang myself from all this.

Is it that we look at the moon because we are blind?

I know there is something more solid than the truth:
that can not be alone in me,
then withered,
and dies.

Words can deceive,
only music is diaphanous.
But the music does not want to leave us .....
Why?

Life keeps giving me questions.