If nothing else in this world I wish
is that crave to live in freedom,
and this feeling is insidious just take what might be nostalgia
or bitterness nebula of those seeking brightness unnecessarily.
Dreams are profane and deep,
redundant and hollow,
that could dive in and never come did,
unless the same face of sterile trappings
thrown by luck and unprecedented.
Tortures of voracity and foolishness
of an old heart that knows not and the inebriates
who perhaps prepared in addition to the scaffold,
in the confines of disenchantment.
In opium, in the cold and the ignorance of heat
that will never want or tried.
My arguments do not have sufficient strength,
submerged in the expectation that no longer would fit more.
And the song from scattering abroad
only expressed the last cry and nothing more.