Strange title?
Which among so many mists
hides that truth that sometimes screams
and sometimes only breathes?
What beats in my oblivion
that turns me into my executioner
without knowing what my fault is?
Everything is ink that fades
under the water of a tear
the portrait of a yesterday
that is still here
despite being gone
What good are my dreams
if there are no skies to place them in?
What good are my hands
if there is only air to hold on to?
What it's for?
They are words that went away
with the air of a sigh
and even if I look into my guts
I will find nothing clear
when life and its traps
turn off the light of the soul