How pretentious can be the silence
in the mornings of the hot summer days!
I felt nothing no more, for patience
is not limited to formal love and it says:
It was just me. The rest of the world delivers
heavy waves stumbling against my wall,
trying to set right the serpentined rivers
of crying, flowing on my crusty skin of a wooden doll.
The Sun, a dragon that throws flames on his nose,
the Wind, too coward to show his refreshing face,
the Sky, discolored in the distance, it froze,
just the Moon closed his eyes, leaving no trace.
Me and I, were not well together,
but I have found the power to listen to myself,
sipping the sweet-bitter coffee, feeling a bit better,
I was learning again to live, to be an other self.
I knew that one day the blank pages will be coloured,
That the ink stains of my soul will disappear,
That I will forget about the storm that is uncovered,
the call of love will be on my side, without shedding no tear.
I knew that butterflies melody I would hear soon,
Birds chattering happy over the green forest,
That I will never hear poor souls screaming in the noon,
That all this will be simple memories on my wrist.
Now I extinguish my thirst with accords of violin,
Mistrust has deserted from my sleepless earth,
Regrets have become sad songs of flowers on my skin,
In the breeze of the morning, forgetting my wound’s birth.