Under our skies, stars that often share a common moon
Under our skies, stars that often share a common moon,
My poetry reveals its mystery with a shocking flair from the moon.
I told those who still don't know, with my eternal and hideous luck,
That on this blooming Earth, I am a worthy hero but superfluous.
To friends baptized in wine, like a jaded, local, and ethylic Saint Sisyphus,
I carried their joys in a goblet, while my gaze idly wandered.
Not even in their drunkenness did I find the disappointment I sought,
Among people who eternally carry their boulder, confusing it with their own shrine.
When we occupy any grave, as if we were just a thought,
Numbing the times with the pleasure of death, the only wealth on this earth,
The shadow of my loneliness, pitiful and undeniable, uninterrupted,
Perfect tears, that lazily lie in my eye lids, round, uninterrupted.
Even from the sleep of dreams, looking at them inversely, longing takes shape,
Forming from my soul a new outcast, not too far from the moment.
A zoological park of frozen motion, where everything is petrified,
Animals more alive than people, yet stuffed, in an endless time.
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