It may be that time has come to a halt
and all what remains is a cold Winter.
But the relentless suns of this abysm
will keep shattering the torturous saber
of their fires.
And what was conceived in cries
of gag when the night howled irredeemably,
will come back dragging its shackles
after the fervent convulsion of a singing
sated of dreams.
The merciless daggers of a devastating weariness
will become a frosty silence under a sky
that scorches memories, lost moments,
that burns all what denies its prey
to what is sempiternal.
And we will scald the sentences written on the walls
as fateful embers, as if we were
the tamers of a storm that could never
defeat our vessels on an indecipherable sea
of immovable floes.
Here, between the twilight and the dawn, stood
the life we wanted to embrace. Here, we will say
−pointing at the places splattered of rage,
stood the eyes of some faces
nascent and unequalled.
No hand will be enough to spread
the ashes of so many wings that were opened
facing the whirlwind of sirens with its blind becoming,
as kites waving promises
condemned to the same ground.
Who will rise the cold glass of reason
to blaze into the bonfire of the ephemeral
when the sphinxes of our first fervor
open their jaws and scatter their enigmas
devouring the mysteries?
And what was spoken becomes a corroded word:
it may be that the time has come to a halt
and all what remains is a cold Winter.
