How many individuals asked for help in a half-tone,
And how many will insist again through a beautiful lament,
Almost embarrassed to confess that they lose foot,
Though tempting to open their hearts to what suits them.
What affliction when tribulations in the prison point to inaction.
Consolation in reclusion, dismay without cooperation,
At the edge of the basement window, immersion in an immense fairground of perdition;
Ouch! Losing diction.
It’s in the negation of these evils that speech returns.
Who closes his eyes becomes (in)capable of guilt?
There is no choice between culinary art and heartbreak;
Yob, don’t run away from yourself, drived into prostitution under radar;
Be cheeky to cultivate clean air and culminate in heart.
If my words articulate the abstraction of my actions,
And if I hammer them over and over again –
Charming irony of fate –
Perhaps they will land in secret within the concrete
That desmay me, but willingly attract my will
Towards a divine infinity which denatures me in constellation.