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quinta-feira, 11 de fevereiro de 2016

the tragedy of the nobodies

from all
who trespassed 
the immovable truth's

straight through 
the sounding 
trumpets of disbelief
 and voices of discouragement
from those who rather sleep


it's the measure
of all illusions 
in our disguise

this measure
is always ours, 
so it is 
our right to be

between the cold grip 
and us
'til our last trip
we can still 
pretend
only time can dictate 
how long 'till
this illusion mend 

soul drifting
in longing distances 
rapacious 
howling 
in rifting
silence 


for the previous sages
whose now sums the rages
to the elder peers 
we are still the offenders 

offend 
from pretend
in this illusion stitch 
to where 
they also can't reach
(but who used who?!)

the accuser claims 
"I did what the other didn't"
 -  but in his indifference 
the accused
only says 
"i could have done it 
if you ever let me dreamed it"

the hidden belief
sways the strings 
for all the accused
hidden right beneath
a layer of orchestrations
in a memorial 
   congregation , 

surviving 
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 this lonely towns


"daydreaming days 
of a daydreaming nation.

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