I move in the music of the mire, where
the germs of dreams infect us, when
the germs of dreams infect us, when
we our hearts are at their weakest.
Hope is as helpful as a weapon, while
its sole use is to destroy the darkness, with
it light does not always arrive after the fight.
Each moment is a milestone, wild
in that we have no clue what will be, who
might use up all our happiness like a bar tab.
Time is the payment, and it is always due, what
comes and goes surrounds the now, worried
not of your consequence but the tick or the next tock.
The hands of the clock are sad swords, whom
the heart tolls for, slicing off limbs of life, why
we have no idea the direction of the horizon.