A head lied on a desk,
A tired gaze watching
Out of the window.
The lights are beginning to be born,
The sun is slowly rising upon
The land, warming the dried weed.
The waves of a lake are shining,
As the rays hit the waves,
And people begin their day.
A head is now rising,
It wasn't asleep, but only numbed
By the pressure of his own dream.
His lips moved, and voice is born:
"It must be good to rise,
I wish to feel those heights".
