Only mystery makes us live. Only mystery.

I want to play the game of the kites,

To retreat from the anarchic grief my fault does bring.

I want to sing the hymn of the sparrows,

To free the mortal body that one does mock.

I don’t want to hear the plea of the wicked,

And their bustling heads filled with deception.

I don’t want to learn of the sorrows of men,

Nor of the stars with dead dreams

That I wish not to follow.

I desire to run once more,

A run of life and duality I yearn.

I desire to write the child a story,

And the lessons of life he should not run away from.

I desire to seek the questions for my vague answers,

That in reality I have not really found.

The labyrinth of victory is yet to be sought after

By the enraged sons and daughters

Because I had ordered them to go after me.

Let the wolves go after the carcass of failure,

And after so, shepherd the lambs to try.

Bury me somewhere in the hills,

In the bed of tortures of the grass perhaps

Or with the winds in olive grove,

And the ones in Sierra.

In the skies, my soul dwells.

Giveth thy land with mystifying ardor,

Covered in veils of mystery

That overshadows the disappearance of the heart.

I want to sleep awhile,

Awhile—centuries, millennia.

Everyone must know that I have not died;

That the memory is alive for another expedition;

That the immense light does not dim;

That I am a friend the world has.

Spread my fragments of soul in railings

And starch me white to satisfy the breeze.

Leave the windows open

And wet with oil my hair,

So that the time of man does not wash the color.

With swindling mind an individual has,

Permits me to strike one in the neck.

But leave me not the reason of hatred,

For I don’t want to be summoned in its name.

Those who depart last know tears like those of raindrops,

That nothing nourishes the soul;

And know earth is finite from the beginning,

And is only a temporary place for them.

Dry land,

Reaped valleys of Adam,

How are you?

What is left in that very kind heart of yours?

Tell the butterflies what I have missed,

Tell them to send my friends my greetings.

So to climb the knife’s edge I will,

To continue my travel that was halted before.

Hurry for I hear the dead voices of the dahlias,

And the poison-ivy’s been banished forever.

Hurry for I’ll leave at dawn immediately,

The gazelle and antelope do not wait.

There is a graveyard far off and a corpse,

Lamenting for his amputated ankle

Because of the abandoned terra firma;

And that the girl they cremated whined extravagantly.

I am in search for the burn that keeps everything awake,

I am in search of my half that was lost.

But like me,

Poems are blind.

And without you,

Flames are not tinted angrily.

That’s why I am to find everything.

I am clinging to the snow-white flakes I feel,

Cold as to send one’s pain away;

White as roses,

And white as my pain.

I am not obliged to bid everyone good-bye,

So as to weep for my pitied body in four columns of mire.

I am contented leaving a smile,

With meanings,

Only he could decipher.

I have lost the dreams of my youth;

My friends and family,

And the ones who raised me.

But cast me in oblivion.

Not only did I lose completely,

By shots murdered;

But with pen and ink

Was after that—written in the heavens.

©hasmor