When it is not enough to have served well
Or not sufficient to have embraced an illusion
There is no greatness in recognizing littleness
There is no bravery in facing the impossible everyday.
A question that replaces the other
A pain that supplants another
While infinite spaces of day-to-day
Put distance between a present joy and the next.
The story is nothing more than a shot
That in the last tract of the bullet
One who knows will be the victim practically screams
His horrible, childish and honest desire of a farewell party,
When you start again or finish or at least attempt it
From the origin to the end
Such as faults that you mumble
From the very sad part of dissatisfaction.
During the morning with cloudiness in the eyes
In which a very humble human being
Will tell another something of his knowledge
As if the whole world had something to notice in it.
You are nothing
You are everything
To be or not to be
But saying it
Why the ignorant count on it?
And in the acceptance another ignorant depends
Because the scholar is subject to it
And denies his dependency like all scholars do.
The hours are escaping
Stinking in their captivity
As somebody mentions and pollutes them
And living is not enough for their redemption
In the thought of someone who confirmed it was good
As he has had the possibility of sustaining it
Letting go for a reason that could always be explained
But never was felt as true, as the astrologist
Who is able to predict what cannot be done silencing it.