Of my birth,
I still do not recover.
And if you listen
in the still voice
of the night
the lie of the sound,
the betrayal of the imaginary,
the illusion of the company,
the hope of the phantom heat
of the breath of a caress
that will lurk in the ear
in the next moment,
during insomnia:
what is about to happen.
Gunpowder in your blood.
Growing up to be a boy again.
Lose the fear of fear ...
... until I find life
so beautiful
so desirable
that you turn it over to fate
and death you escape
with the life
with life on your part.