Lonely, feigned men, dead branches,

living in lairs where the wind chased them,

uttering in silence only a lament:

being at once lost and old already.

 

Gloomy refuge is the hearth,

when life feels like a tomb,

and echoes questions

you can never answer.

 

How laden has your passion been,

for you who never had a soul:

only assassins of each singie thought.

 

Don’t be surprised when somebody

comes a sniffing between rites and sins:

spit silence on any hatred.

 

01-12-2011