not returned to this place since then,
the world and life, all could
a stone's throw, had only the imagination
.
absurdity is no stranger to the existence, the word is usually
and freedom lies a hoax,
are thoughts that haunt me,
were then and are now air exhaled sighs with anguish.
not change the landscape, are the eyes that die.
My eyes languid strolls the streets of dust
in which no longer grow or the dung.
The place to sleep even when I dream of freedom
is a deserted cemetery,
godforsaken,
a hole of trouble.
And is not the place elsewhere, is the soul
skin-that is dying, which is stirred
cursing the memory uneasy prostitute.
Solo and in the middle of a square inert
aware of the betrayal of the memories,
blame for all failures,
I face my own view, lost in advance.
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