sexta-feira, 7 de fevereiro de 2014

About the beauty

And all that was left was less than myself.
With a poor broken soul
What am I? Mist of sorrow
Wandering among yours might selves
Making the lusts of lights my companions
Fooling around with nowhere sounds
Wondering if my attempts break real bounds
Of if they are just assiduous minions

Of loneliness that is my true nature
Words and words collected by me
To sing the world, but never for me
So my tears in my face, itselves, moisture 
In the deepts of my sweet glimpses 
Where I still hold my secret wishes
My untamed wishes containing the feathers
Of the stars, the fallen ones that turn into birds
And show us the very essence of the beauty: 
The fall!

By: Bruno

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