The Heart does not Wither but it Tires
We are the hand raised against our time.
The wrath dreaming it could save mankind.
One boiling night. The actual meaning of death.
Ripped off arms never hug. Shattered legs cannot run.
Inattentive mouths do not smile.
We wanted to be more than just an epoch of bones,
more than a sunset of displaced shadows from their bodies.
Wanted to be useful, say what's right, constantly look
at beautiful. But not even the seed of serenity
reached its best shot.
Our desires became the songs of flies
feeding on dead arms. This day, a hollow bottle.
Life, a table full of empty days, defeated,
observed from distance by animals drunk on destiny.
The world, a tavern that does not open on Sundays.