Voices, only voices, like echoes;
like atrocious unfunny jokes.
for a long time I have heard voices and not a word.
and my battered eyes take refuge in nothingness
and They get tired of seeing a lot of faces and not a single glance.
a new cold night in the neighborhood,
the streetwalkers fill their pockets.
the streets are ours, even if time tells us otherwise contrary.
and the undreamed dreams,
they already bitter their throats and keep silent.
and that, almost always (or always), they love it.
Few smiles remain,
prisoners of this chalk prison.
meaning went out,
a mass silence ensued.
fewer hours in life, more s answers to a lost cause:
why feelings return with the day.
alone, like a bird that flies in the night
(free of you...but not from me)
empty, like the dream of a cap.
full of nothing, without knowing where to go.
hard as a dead man in his grave who died of fear,
for the value of living.
the clouds are not made of cotton and the depressions are curses.
it distracts you, it coils you,
it takes you and eats you.
you It hurts and does not forgive and somewhere it steals your face, your smile, your hope, your faith in people. Alone, like a bird that flies in the night (free from you...but not from me)
empty, like the dream of a cap.
full of nothing, without knowing where to go.
hard as a dead man in his grave that died of fear,
for the courage to live.

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