An hour poured into my fragile mind, each minute carrying meaning
An hour poured into my fragile mind, each minute carrying meaning,
Seconds stuffed, the death of the past pulsing silently in their ticking,
The future hides beneath an aged present, slowly fading away,
An absent figure from the future asks me if I will be or not be.
Thus, I found within myself, hurried to face the moments that ceaselessly flow,
Tiny traces of infinity in my current occupations, endlessly repeating.
Attached to life, in my square dream, without profit or clear aim,
The secret, tenacious struggle with windmills that are my own burden.
I seek the antidote, the anti-EVERYTHING, to my poetry, the tears of burning candles,
Passions long corrupted, unfinished sculptures, from stones still uncarved.
When I feel my soul weary from the youthful sprint losing its momentum,
I shake all the windmills of the biosphere, while I am still alive and present.
Through life's intense stress, an illiterate of success, I pass through sonorous time,
The seconds of the past, fractures from a future losing its outline.
In the flow of thoughts, an esoteric and melancholic dance begins,
Searching in the mystery of time for a hidden meaning that can still uplift us.
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