Better when everybody says that is impossible
So what you say is a reflect of your experience
And finally not only one more theory that is intending
To leave behind its garments of utopia embracing the streets.
It’s convenient to continue in predicting season changes
Piling tedious mountains for the future astrologist
That the crowd sustains its condition of undecipherable
So that the selfish, if he can, ends up building his protection wall.
For some reason is necessary to let complaints continue
And at the same time, step by step glimpse in the dimness
The body rhythm coupling to the ancestral melody
That in its unique compass is performing all its harmony.
The touch of tender and that of maturity
A combination of a loved and pregnant woman womb
Who still ignores that within her womb Achilles already throbs
And the hands of the smith, who for a moment finds repose.
Two identical pans of an accurate scale
Both supporting the same weight
Until one of them starts to suspect
That it is complying a purpose, probably intended.
It isn’t exact yet
What is pretended isn’t blindness anymore
New senses are discovered
To scrutinize things not perceived before.
Better then is the hustle and bustle of bees
The impressive concentration
Of millions of thousands of them focused on something
So that just two or three – perhaps ten – carry on the task.
After all, who cares if you arrive or you’re delayed
Either way, if you don’t find any answers
All would be in vain, but above all to continue living
With the grimace of someone accepting but not renouncing
And who doesn’t have the courage after a decade and even more with only illusion as fuel.
But in the meanwhile there must be permission
For all of them at least something, like when in the orphanage
Once a year a ball was given to a boy and a doll to a girl
To reduce their time to the durability of something.