One sometimes thinks that he is the owner of time
and they grow wings and escape in the wind,
and fly copying pigeons
and then dream that aroma,
and believes that it is mountain and is valley;
just a bond that melts the afternoon.
And one goes running alone in life
and does with the most wanted a wound
and forget many things behind
looking for a bed of roses;
a sweet mirage that lies
and that always smells like jume and mint.
Per sometimes one goes back to being juice
of his own flesh and see that it is none,
and look for beloved memories
wishing I had not lost them.
Realize suddenly that it is time
to pay entrance to see how she cries.
Only among all we can make this a better place :)