It might not be that way to hope
Cruel, like sin, in the Universe of darkness
Colours of dust – death or rebirth?
Is all this real, why not just in my dreams?
Deeper than the eyes haven’t seen so much more
Nothing, just to haul the weight of memories to return
Burying my youth, like a brutish Queen
Across the Indian Ocean, two betrayals, a slow drift of inauspicious concurrence
So why not disappear my heart and bones?
The kind of resistance, difficult to endure, only the smells of past and present
An absent body listens to nothing, a portrait of the diabolical: wasted neurons and blood flows
Muted to the choice of trial and error, with thorns in the flesh
My Universe is unable to move to the rhythm, a feverish body – warmed by the sun.
I tremble to my very own breath, as my last voice. There’s something, I can’t!
Perhaps, only capable in the world of Gods and Goddesses.
Rest in the lap of sacred soil, no other than becoming a poet, a mortal
Or, in an afterlife – of a rare fragrant, the blossoming season of Renaissance. Could it be true?