The mists
Walking through from the mists
that delimit my life,
the roads that would not bring most clarity
even while immersed in the anxieties and daydreams
of those who had made missing the simplest
and probable the voice of freedom, and distant absent.
How far one perceives beyond decline
does not permit you believe
at a future more and more distant and most disastrous.
Smoky scene is repeated at each step
and every instant, creating what, for that matter,
represents what takes place inside my soul,
sick and senile.
Snake among the sunset and profound
than crepuscular in my moment know,
you can still hear the voice of a false hope that resonates,
distorted on a diseased mind.
Marcos Loures
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