You shake
my hand in amazement, amid winter-dressed fields and tired white branches. When
will this anxiety go away? Then the eternal words will come. How are hopes?
When we remember those distances, we are filled with laughter and nostalgia.
Yes, our memories are inspiring, full of tears. Maybe it will attract our
friends and they will love to sail in this memory; in this sea of
inspiration. Why not? We can be good writers, and of exceptional sizes. Yes,
we can be good writers; we grow wheat and buy reeds to warm the autumn. Is not
this our blood flowing, and our bodies sold in the streams? I am tired of these
merchants and the people of cheap goods. They hold us fake eyes. Are they not
tired of this slavery? Are they not ashamed? I hope you hear, there must be
freedom, there must be a beginning, a scream that awakens the sleepers.
