The sense of defeat.
Soft is the wind that rocks the defeat,
c'altro not c'un sense of unfinished business.
could be better, this life,
create the dream of an infinite sense of well
instead give rise to solitary light
embrace of light and shadow, sun and shadow,
incest as unhealthy as necessary
to withstand our condition.
tortures me remorse since knowledge
that if this had not happened,
today's forests would be lost to the sea,
avoiding the storm fiery
you Knock down our houses.
No mercy is in fact the wind
when she sings the poem of death,
the end of time and exile,
that civilization has brought to the world.
The horror of a black species that is extinguished
is small compared to a dying planet.
We are like puppets vindictive,
and we turned to our creator,
what has always walked on, with love and hate,
sleepless walking on the belly.
Maybe one day you will ask,
what age could never be so foolish,
so stupid, obtuse and malignant
to affect subsequent ones.
Do not leave any trace
of love and kindness.
Perhaps some questions, you should not let me,
because today is no longer necessary.
the incomplete nagging pain in my ears,
not allowing me to hear.
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