I feel that you wouldn’t want my accomplishment
And not for the consequence but for the act
Of doing something that perhaps you can do
That you don’t do it, for the reason you choose.
You are able to console but not to encourage
Your own sabotages impede you from it
As the hedonist acts impede him
Who wants to speak to the most intense ascetic.
The night visitors, the radicals
Each one of them grasping a dagger
And with a veil covering their intensities
They demonstrate the intangibles, trying intensities.
Of the others for nothing, of those who look at you
Of the lonely ways of a rusty train
Of twilight time and an old attempt
As a bridge in the air, that is deprived of direction.
Without mind or body
The same smoke drawn on postcards
The complete image of torment
That converges with misery and vulgarity.
The blows of things that you don’t understand
The darkness, the light and the plastic
To refer to reality without any fear of punishment
That’s the appropriated field for final dishonor.
Tightening ropes on the bow of the soul
Measuring emptiness that remains to unknown
While you attends your own desperation
That is dominated by constant impulse and a frustrating effort.
Thus, the eyes on your shoulders
That reached for the release of sadness
But not for the outburst of the honest laughter
Where tremor is destroyed, as it is destroyed an obstacle in a mine.
In the edge of your finger of fragile precision
The keys that weave the possibility of your name
In a time that you glimpse what you could do
Had it not been for too much present charged with a past not absorbed