Only I want to express my anxiety in poem and singings, which abolished would say the rose of the essence of the youth in the world of the sleep, accompanied of the bitter defloration of my life, inside an abyss of pain without taken care.
The trip towards the seas of east is a distance, that only the prayers bloom blasphemy, but the immense thing the whipping is towards me as swan in a marsh, the false blue nocturne of inquirida Bohemian lifestyle.
Inside my melancholy only I ask, that my sleep should flood with violins, that greets that the sun dies, would be my sublime sleep that it smooths the night, that the following day acclaims a fragrant hope to roses fresh air.
That is of doing for the life interior torture, the conscience, humanizing what I am, the horro begins not with the fear but towards the inevitable thing that I go, there turns a brutal nightmare suspended in the gap of an external sleep, it is a rare tuning but this infinite feeling and alone crying will stop when the lion wakes up of his exile.
