No, it isn’t enough to have served well
It isn’t sufficient to have embraced an illusion
There isn’t greatness in recognizing littleness
There isn’t bravery in facing the impossible everyday.
A question that replaces the other
A pain that supplants another
While infinite spaces of the day-to-day
Maintain a distance between a present joy and the next.
The history is nothing more than a shot
Where the last tract of the bullet
That knows who will be the victim, almost screaming
His horrible, childish and honest desire of a farewell party,
Starting or finishing again, or at least attempt it
From the origin and the end
Such as faults that you mumble
That is from the very sad part of the unsatisfied.
For the morning the rustiness between the eyes
In which a very humble human being
Will tell another something of his knowledge
As if the whole world had something to notice in it.
You are nothing
You are everything
To be or not to be
But saying it
Because with it the idiot tells
That another idiot depends from his acceptance
Because the scholar depends on it
That denies his dependency like all scholars do.
The hours are escaping
Stinking of imprisonment
For mentioning somebody pollutes them
And living isn’t enough for their redemption
In the thought of someone who perceived it was good
And who has had the possibility of sustaining it
Letting go for a reason that could always be explained
But that never was felt as true, as the astrologist
Who is able to predict that he couldn’t be able, silencing it.