Ambushed in the bowels of a journey
of a hundred thousand deserts that admit of no turning back,
I feel that the path that I have burned every day
leads me, when it ends, to another desert anymore.
But I keep walking in search of some mirage
in case one of them is ever the sea,
those found so far have only been abysses
by the that I fell for not worshiping any altar.
Lost the north,
the east, the west and the south...
what do they want with so many famines
and pestilences and wars and serial deaths,
if we are all at risk
of the elements.
And so I go around tombs are the watchword,
orphan of stars that indicate me some sun,
but there is no longer light, nor fire, not even firewood,
nor the melancholic night of the sunflower.
And although I know that innocent maps no longer exist
I am drifting as my little faith goes
in believing that I can flee from the Intelligent Hydra,
that Pandemonium of Power that no one sees.
Lost in the north,... (bis)

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