The world isn't a cube
divided by the savants' flames,
the art don't reborn from the mice
nor from the chaos' shoes,
I'm alone again, crucified on
the bone of the soft questions,
the intelligence cream is too old,
I cannot offer it to a cook
to make a teeth of my fears!

Confusion is too big in the glasses,
don't sell me centaurs' orbits,
nor the laughs of the dead hands,
the sculptors pray in the deserts,
the snake becomes a saint;

Alone, again, I must explore
this intake of the words,
all the destiny curves,
all the hungry time knives.

I don't know if I'm dead,
the past is too blind today,
the future no appears on the sun,
I waiting naked the calm hopes
to fill the box of the mind,
don't breath the wet of my soul!