In a world where crowds are lost in heavy noise

In a world where crowds are lost in heavy noise, Where every face becomes a shadow in its own game, I watch silently as laughter breaks the empty walls, And the scent of alcohol mixes with smoke and rain. There, twelve souls drown their identity in glasses, Melting away in jokes without substance. But beyond the faint laughter and forced smiles, Each person hides an unspoken, forgotten truth. I feel like a dreamer, searching for a better world, Yet not knowing the way under the stormy sky. Politics and government, illusions that unravel, Are not the answers I seek beneath this heavy bronze. Discouragement is a cloak that weighs on my shoulders, The world's pain is a burden, the years press on me. And then, what else remains but to write, To turn pain into verses, to seek another tomorrow. My words become advice for the dreaming youth, Better to live in a barrel than to write what does not matter. For those who write nonsense are always self-assured, While true writers doubt their destiny. And what happens when the weak read to other weaklings? A gathering of shadows, each waiting to speak, to grow. The atmosphere is heavy, anti-life, a place of self-praise, A deep and permanent failure that bathes in souls. True creation, a solitary act is born, Far from the crowds suffocating in empty words. Writing is the only way to find meaning in absurdity, To turn pain into art, under the dark, flowing sky. And so, I return to my deep silence, Letting the words flow, a river through the soul, to fill, Always searching, always hoping, For a better world, under a heavier sky. , Where every face becomes a shadow in its own game, I watch silently as laughter breaks the empty walls, And the scent of alcohol mixes with smoke and rain. There, twelve souls drown their identity in glasses, Melting away in jokes without substance. But beyond the faint laughter and forced smiles, Each person hides an unspoken, forgotten truth. I feel like a dreamer, searching for a better world, Yet not knowing the way under the stormy sky. Politics and government, illusions that unravel, Are not the answers I seek beneath this heavy bronze. Discouragement is a cloak that weighs on my shoulders, The world's pain is a burden, the years press on me. And then, what else remains but to write, To turn pain into verses, to seek another tomorrow. My words become advice for the dreaming youth, Better to live in a barrel than to write what does not matter. For those who write nonsense are always self-assured, While true writers doubt their destiny. And what happens when the weak read to other weaklings? A gathering of shadows, each waiting to speak, to grow. The atmosphere is heavy, anti-life, a place of self-praise, A deep and permanent failure that bathes in souls. True creation, a solitary act is born, Far from the crowds suffocating in empty words. Writing is the only way to find meaning in absurdity, To turn pain into art, under the dark, flowing sky. And so, I return to my deep silence, Letting the words flow, a river through the soul, to fill, Always searching, always hoping, For a better world, under a heavier sky.