An old and great oasis
For a new kind of thirst
That is happy to exists
And in its pain doesn’t deviate.
The old story of passion
For a body that knowing it
That cordially assumes without wasting
Like the beard accepts a thorn in its skin.
The heart opened with a bite
And with smiling lips
And the lips are moving
Not even grazing the sin again.
Nothing matters when something is worthwhile
And although the sun doesn’t stop before the light
Or the intelligence isn’t despised by wisdom
A great sadness leaves its trace in every difference
She was born without perceiving the idea directing her
But understanding the ideal that developed her persistence
In the center of one who aspired another
When from a possible target, becomes a probable companion.
So that then and always
The weapons be only a few
And the reasons always poor
And thus will be possible in battle to express silence
On behalf of one who is confused and doesn’t want to confuse.
So that crying doesn’t hurt the one who finds
The escape from the arrows of a constant enemy
That masters each leaf that overmasters the slope
That wants to give a precise cut in the heels
To see instantaneously the chin sinking in the mud –
But to be possible for one who can build in peace
His own flag of undecipherable struggle
Razing the truth of the intention
With decades or seconds of fidelity
From his tower that was built
Passing over the law of its foundation.