From your being to mine, we shall live most of our realities in poetry,
Why do you speculate so much about the metaphors; there isn’t any!
For you always complain about corruption and God and lizards,
And sometimes, even about the taste of time in November
when the last leaf of autumn dissolves into the memory of earthworms.
But are there enough excuses or only, the remnants of text is an option.

Can I deceive you by speaking of melodies in travelogues, stories and silence?
‘why use a poor anesthesia for a scoundrel’, an anarchic romance!

Over the porch of age and yearning, life must become a toothless fairy
And you, the soloist of melancholy, suffocated by silly debates or mute arguments
do not blame me! This world enjoys mediocrity too much.
but this discourse was to be a prose, about dreams and butterflies; simplicity,
no visuals, no text, no radio at midnight and one day, silence will become a verse.