Libre, in this time of not knowing who you are. Between fluctuations of stupor. In the vision he shudders as he discovers life, just born, and to die is a clarity that makes us whole. Look. The poet knows the loneliness and ghosts are thought to materialize, senselessness. Climbing the shadows and away from silence, still that voice. She is far away. Failed to understand that death and life is being a mystic or no longer believe in anything, and no more pure in vision, that he who denies, wait. She did not understand the knock on me. The force of the words. That love does not know and when you know not love, because they live outside and can not live only indoors. She understood and unknowingly, embrace the dreams that tie their hands, to set us free. But are your eyes see it clearly and without it, no poetry, no way to know not, achieved. Distant company. The days are, every night, a reflection in that same light. Their faces in which the shock impact and the disease strikes, to his relief.
