The naive smile of the child that expand fascinates me;
Vague memory of a sleeping future that stretches and goes out.
This heart caught off guard, who is ashamed, who counts;
Months, years to pass; It only remains to make the laying.
To caress illusory hope, before finally falling.
Why not try to revive the fire, if he’s affected?
Play fair game, yield to confessions, commit without farewell.
Who knew how to plant and supplant this bitter magisterium?

Should we guide this innocent man over the dead road?
Should we create the evidence of the existence I report?
Bloody reality that the ink can’t sufficiently blacken.
In my imagination, I thought he was pale at the only sketch of vice,
While he laughed with desire, detached from the sleeping society
Which dictate the staging and launch his hatred.