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quinta-feira, 11 de fevereiro de 2016

the tragedy of the nobodies

from all 
who trepassed  
the imovable truth

the sounding trumpets

of disbelief,

and all voices
of discoragement

(of those who rather sleep)

it´s the measure

of all illusions 

in our disguise

the measure
 is ours, 

so it is 
all pain of living

the cold grip
and us

we can still pretend...

- the illusion 
is ours,

so it is 
our right to be

iam sound, 
through sirens call
soul drifter,
in all longing distances

the rapacious howl

at the sinous
 sight of the moon

- the hidden belief
hidden right beneath

a lost orchestration

a memorial congregation , 

in the tragedy 
of the nobodies

that nobody regards.


we were young,

we were vain

we were
the bruised bodies

in ethereal desperation
- the lonely ones,
in all lonely towns

                                                                "daydreaming days 

in a daydreaming nation..."

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