Whither the light of the young eyes that are asleep,
when the sun rises on the gray spots, which scatter
old doubts treacherous standards
enlivened your fire outbreak at the bottom of their hearths?
It trickles down my face, it bleeds into my heart, I travel
in the blur of those old resentments,
I do not know the address of bourgeois good god,
to send you the slap that we have put our Old
There is more than counters that litter my dreams
life left you fall like the boats churent
of those you spoke of the courage and vigor,
anchored in the guts of a sailor who boards.
And the lighthouse falls asleep, and I'm on the pier,
the waves hit the door and wet your shoes,
the wind in your hair, I'm that old cliche,
which you spoke to me like they speak the old junkies.
ruddy and lazy, this reflection scares me;
smoke that fogs the mirror of the past
blowing winds of torpor
passive and let live our deep friendship.