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The lion's den
is still reality
Getting out of it is impossible for us
it is a false slogan
Our dear angel< br/>He feeds on roots and then
He sleeps in the bushes under the trees
But he will never be a slave
The mirrors for the larks
They now flash in vain on the ground< br/>Like prostitutes who sell in the night
A gay man a basket of love that love is never
Fear and alienation
And not what you say
The wrinkles are too old for centuries now
It is no longer possible to put make up on them
Our dear angel
he is young, you know that
The nets preclude him from open flight
/>But he never gives up
Cathedrals darken
The white wings no longer seem white
But our aspirations filter the darkness
Luminous tracers point out the blue to him