The cults that heap in the hay
The straws that suppose
My body is made of passing pins
The ultimate reward is the success of the flip of a coin
The tresses of the trust that border social romance
The institutionalized sobered up the liberals
As the freedom was enslaved
Ignored about the three marauders
Pounced on the serf
Striped by the jungles of currency that is changing
But, not going extinct
We are stuck to our monetary exchanges we just surpass them
Hill of the doubt, flow around in the blue dye
The blue sky that reflects the sky of our rights
The doubts in the secret lives of poets
I told you I will write another one
In my own right