I would like to write a song, for the memory of your music.
Let that voice have the notes, of those desperate screams, which demanded the presence of your sounds.
I would like to write a song, so that your angel face returns, in the arm of humility. Build a coffin without your body. To be able to caress those hands that fought for those ideals, that were lost in the depths of an endless river.
Where have you gone? In what heavenly paradise an aboriginal tapestry-colored tree nailed the cross and the grave, where perhaps unfulfilled aspirations rest.
I wonder through tears and avalanches how to write the end of the song.
If it were possible, that somewhere in the lost south, we would find you.
I have memory, with capital letters, and a committed soul. Feelings and positions that those who inhabit do not have, sitting in the armchair of greed.