The hours do not respect the misfortune, and it remains to tell them
that a truce can break the bones.
In the triviality of the road, I fight for the continuation, I lift every stone, I avoid
disappointing my skin
and I separate the soul from the stove
and its fire counterfire.
Breathing one suspects
the intention of the doubtful future,
like chimerical fragrance
my lung recognizes the efforts
but nothing like a real fire,
like the effect of the days
in a land of mirages
with leaky gabardines,
the hours go by
naturally
and will never know their ramification
in time.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
