It seems that after a length of time
When your bosoms are relaxed
And your teeth are damaged
You would be less important to his eyes than today.
There something that says to you
And that something is the way he looks at you
The dimension of his desire
That marks the intensity of each one of his caresses.
Perhaps tomorrow the words will not be enough
Yours or his
As still your body searches a body
And not the encyclopedia you could never accomplish.
But it won’t be more than to endure
And at the end where time lies
The great conceptual structure
That must measure its strength in front of all.
And now, when the wine is still not sour
To see if you build moments like webbing a net
Sinking your eyes in the story of scarcities
It’s what each one wants to build as distinctive of his horrible flag.
They usually warn that little is what can be accomplished
As much it is pointed out
That the minutes that follows
Is decided in the previous one.
Everyone makes the decision to listen
To foresee or stop thinking
While the crickets sing their lust
Not being able to demonstrate it.
Sometimes the escape never exists
Mainly when you lose love
And the arm that wisely would cover your back
Waiting terrified the moment to apologize for his senility.
As you see, the epochs are usually different
As it’s written, an important thing is the companion
And another thing is companion, in the length of time
It is where some minds still confuse selfishness with self-centeredness.
The act of someone who tries to save
It’s differenced as a favor
That of one who wants to be saved
Different, when for pity
Of somebody who does all the necessary to do it.
And thus the tool and not the one who uses it
Only then the result more than the process
Because they wouldn’t have biography or epitaph
As one and another will fuse afterwards
And not before.
The falsehood of nakedness
The disgrace in pretending to test yourself
The turpitude in intending to capture a winged truth
As it rides the asinine force on a simple desire.
The bitterness of facts
The confirmation of the truth
Without the balsam of crying eyes
And the right actions like stones thrown by the past.
And the old legend of pride
The theory of honesty
And that of human nature
Just like if the older weighted
And it didn’t balance the younger .
The bubbling of mocking
And the tickling of fear
Tears the skin in the heels
They dream on the broken forehead by the rock.
However, after this time
It could be that it didn’t depend on forgiveness
But in demanding the other the same extreme attitude
For which someone decided his distance from the impossible.
But a languish and febrile “however”
As history and astrologists say
They are made up of salt and air
But they aren’t of bread or wine.
So that the worst is to guess right
And the tragic isn’t doing it
Until from the flesh
Someone during life, without saying
Touches with another, without remorse
The fire doesn’t depend on the air.