The path of return, serene postscript of the unfinished
thoughts and feelings, is making its way to the horizon of winter,
where in the trot of the overweight forebodings, as in the armor
of doubts, I am making my way down the stairs to the dungeon
of satiated fatigue. Like a snowball, like the icy mountain with
the sad Monday, after all Sundays of dream, the whim of my unfounded
fears grows. With the silver of generations into the Silver Age,
I am riding on the white horse like the eternal rider of my own vigil.
And night is in the windows, the voiceless truth of tired events,
have a rest and lean to the ground, it always has a continuation
of life, and when you try this sensual world on and realize that it’s
not yours for a long time, don’t offend with your last passion
other’s womb of love.