At the corner of the world,
there he is.
Silent, thinking, restless.
He sees how his feet
walk on a smooth surface,
oh, how easy it is to fall."
He says, and
he who sees everything
and keeps everything,
the years go by, but
the child grows,
his days are his nights,
sweet insomnia that reproduces
like music,
sweet smile after the break,
sweet void where
the motive is not found.
That guy with shaven head,
in an ambiguous mind,
without beginning or end.
You can see him review his corner,
his around,
his own pillow between embers.
God knows
his world is on fire,
but he observes
and makes ashes his way.
Oh, strong child
grown in thoughts,
where are those who live in the future?
raise your hand and
close your eyes,
the present is slow
and patience is short.
He knows what it is to live,
in and out
of his mind,
which he loses and finds
as a dance in between interlude.
He is here,
in the smell of coffee
and antique furniture.
Framed pictures, all in white.
In stormy rains and scattered fog.
He slides delicately
but expresses strongly,
he knows that being alone
indicates silence, but
this is both, good and bad.
He has so much to live,
even when he
is not here.
He just sees the flames
coming up.
Watch the flames
come down.
Sin has become strange
and peace a mere sound.
With his green eyes
he can see you,
increase if he understands you, diminish if he get bored.
He simply observes.
If you ever wondering
where the great minds come from,
he can answer you.
A boy
with saved memories,
pain in his hands,
and a script in his soul.
Oh sweet night watchman,
embrace your present as
what you once desired,
call your mind when it escapes you, take my hand when
you do not find calm,
although
you have always fought alone.
You know
who you are.
But you do not understand.
Even if you want to.
So without further ado,
i will tell you
it is art.
Do not deny it.
