How far shall I hurt my love,
to push away this pain of the soul,
to cross the limit of the wait,
to smile again with you?
How deep shall I love you,
to hold you in my heart,
to live in your dreams again,
to anchor myself in you?
How far shall I hold my tears,
to cry in the joy of yours,
to spend myself on you again,
to tear my sadness apart with you?
How far shall I travel alone,
weaving old and new memories?
All over my hate and pain,
it pushes me back, again and again;
standing in the middle of an empty road,
I realize my emptiness, in the worldly crowd…
Way to way, with my endless hay,
I realize I waste one more day;
and with the lonely house,
I find my emptiness…
The silence of love and hate,
I find my state in a stapled chase;
stammering my life once again,
I feel my emptiness, again…
To the lonely road,
to the endless bay,
to the world of dreams,
I live my emptiness, again.
Afar, at the heights of love,
I am scared of its hurt;
wide open, I welcomed the thorns —
how seldom do I hear it wrong?
Heart of time…
Day upon day, and turning nights;
every day goes by, one sight;
here and there, belonging of mine —
once, there was a heart of time…
Keys of a piano, and melody of sounds;
thunder of the sky, and broken apart;
every time, every day, the mirror does not shine,
left with the broken heart of time…
Flying with the speed of the past,
nothing lasts ever, where the race ends;
this is not the end, nor the beginning —
it lies in the anger of time…
I bid my love to memories,
immersed in the eyes of time;
lost, but having conquered the world,
living myself, in the heart of time.
You row my day, and wake my night;
you sleep beside my heart in its fight;
you fire my dreams, and flow my blood,
under the hope of one more life…
You come across, and whisper love,
but you make my life a hell, and goodbye;
you burn my heart with one more desire,
under the hope of one more Valentine…
Come before, and still late to myself;
noise all around inside, and peace outside;
from day to night, and night to hurt,
the ringing, and the silence, of time.
In the heart of hate and love,
with the cycle of joy and pain;
destinations with no journey,
one voice — and all of it empty.
A recreation of thoughts and incidents,
lasting, though never in your presence;
fame to loss, hate to love —
merely the active dichotomy of your love.
I look around through my doomed eyes:
brighter than the sun, the night is now;
I travel my memories once more,
and find one child, waiting, counting,
and another, counting on survival,
who offers more happiness than mine.
The city is filled with bulbs and sweets,
and a melancholic mind, like mine.
I open my arms to reach him,
but the silence of my own stands between us;
those gleaming, shimmering eyes, staring at me,
leave me worthless, and full of thought.
What is the meaning of my life, my brightness,
when all around, in one, I see only darkness?
I reach for my wallet, out of pity —
but pity itself dares to hope;
I close my eyes, and think:
when all of this is around — but not happiness;
those sweets, those crackers,
waiting to burst, and to laugh,
a day to love, a joy for one and all —
but all day long, he goes without.
Another day, and I will shed my way;
travellers, the innocent, are my blood’s target.
I may live or die, but it traces out my existence —
the secret I keep locked away, in this battle of the mind.
Words are my sword, and sorrow my blood,
heir of a royal bloodline, wasted in surrender;
you may see no more death in the world,
but the soul-ripper has its own way…
I could never stand beneath the words of love;
we may travel all this world alone,
battling the present for the despair of one past,
fuelling a battle of the mind, every second.
Sunk under the weight of my own,
I surrender my peace to welcome her;
though the sky, not so distant, is burning,
the finite is not so serene…
Plain roads are a symbolic game:
the closer it seems, the farther its way;
up above, yet so dispersed within its own,
covering an inch of the sky’s stone…
Noisy, yet entertaining now,
it feels like riding hell with your own;
a hidden glory beneath the flying cloud —
how it matters, leaving its comfort shell…
In the full night of the dark lorry,
the Lord walked to the fire and spelled a charm;
and I showed my heart to you — and it was gone:
the feelings of it, now, are what they call love and hate.
The long time, and the long way —
but all I feel has passed in a few short hours;
all is clear, yet forgetting turns melancholic,
and still I walk, instead of tempting loneliness.
Instead of tagging the best moments of life,
all I hold is a restless struggle with myself;
it began with the start, toward an end —
but with the endless journey of arguments,
day after day passes, like an inheritance.