Behold, I live to see the new world, I am no longer a
child. In the palms of its sunset, every shroud bleeds with weapons. There - in
the dark - the cold gives its grandchildren lessons in igniting nature. There; all
winds are pale. Weapons suffocate my memory, storm the place, distributing
messages of eternal love to the hungry. There, pens don't want to write
anything, because beauty has fled outside the galaxy, looking for new lovers.
The world hides in an old bottle. Even the holidays, they no longer know the
new air. There is only smoke here.
I am
not surprised by all this great pain, for I have learned the sufficient
reasons; Weapons make camels a vehicle, and they have no choice but to hit the
sides of the road, causing the hearts to bleed. There; in these hearts; trees
will not find shade, but they are plump and red as they should be. Yes, you
know; the heart of the river is a city of ice, and a memory that ignites
thunder and clamor in our depths.
This
is how the streets shrank, floating in the sky of noise like patients trampled
by feet. Children breed in wells in search of an old legend. At that time I was
a child, and the past was a broad view that taught me to hide. My ears were
heavy like a mountain, and you did not find any nectar in them.
