Crumbs of placebos,
so dear to us,
mark the path
of who we once were
and have become again.
Are they dreams
or merely duties
in disguise?
Disillusions,
faithful friends,
will return to us
by the same road
we ourselves have fed.
From mist to storm,
sweat washes the way;
sighs carry off
what once were stones.
We carry the false
like a weight
in our pockets.
We go on, lost,
choosing new placebos
that cost us everything —
and save nothing.