Years that go by
short as days,
short frames,
shaky images,
it's like a saw that cuts happiness
/>of our dreams,
of our jeans,
what will remain?,
of these cursed years, in your heart,
a? us full of holes,
years without reason
now what costs us the most
is not loving each other more
it is a hidden pain, in the soul.
What? will we stay? out of so many eighty,
what? is what will come out? In photography, what? Will we stay?, and the radio sings,
sings a truth within a lie,
years dancing, dancing,
Reagan Gorbachev
hunger in the world dances,< br/>a tragic round.
We are made of pieces, everything in half,
of our books and schools,
what? What will be left?,
years of violent loves,
fighting around,
always ready to change to new theories,
years of idiotic turns, thrown by there
now that the end of this eternity is seen.
What? Will we be left? Of so many eighty, who will reveal? photography
what? will we stay? and the radio sings
"Won't you break my heart
Won't you break my heart"
years of dwarf myths,
acid and windsurfing,
they have become graffiti,
they can no longer be,
maybe tomorrow at this time they will not
have ever existed
and all that that you feel?,
it would fly like a spray...
uh!no...no...no...mai...
from these years of advertising
that we remain?
years of up and down,
of madness and vanity
?the eighties, it seems that
almost eighty years ago now!

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