I feel that you do not want my achievement
And not as a consequence but for the act
To do something that although you could
You do not do for some reason.
Being able to console but not to encourage
Your own sabotage prevents your from it
As they disqualify a hedonist to act
Wanting to seek advice from the most intense ascetic.
The night visitors and the radicals
Each one of them grasping a dagger
And with a veil covering their intense feelings
Proving to be intangible when they try intense things.
Of those who are nothing but look at you
Of the lonely ways of a rusty train
Of twilight time and an old attempt
As a bridge in the air, deprived of direction.
Without mind or body
Like the smoke drawn on postcards
The complete image of torment
Converging with misery and vulgarity.
The blows of things that you do not understand
The darkness, the light and the ductile
To refer to reality without any fear
The appropriated field for final dishonor.
Tightening ropes on the ring of the soul
Quantifying emptiness that remains unknown
While one attends his own desperation
Subject to a constant impulse and a frustrating effort.
Thus, my eyes on your shoulders
Resting there for my relief of sadness
But not to produce an outburst of honest laughter
Where tremors vanish as obstacles crack in a mine.
It is at edge of your mind like a fragile idea
The threads imagining the possibility on your behalf
In a time that you glimpse what you could do
Not for the present charged with a past not understood.