The moon used to give me the best advices,
and sometimes in them, I could find solace to sleep.
Most times, I'd sleep near the fire, reflecting on my madness,
dreaming of lips that were no longer mine and superficial ideas that screamed at me,
flapping their wings.
But on the first day of letting go of bitter sighs,
I also left poems half-written, with words about all I had buried.
With my silhouette turning its back to the door,
my eyes fixed on the white wall,
watching the years slip by and my hair tangling in itself,
I closed my eyes, wounded and burning, entrusting myself to my cards.
The drawings and their blurred instructions seem to want to laugh,
with destiny still not putting on its shoes,
and my predictions, like jokes, seem to be life's ironies.
If lies come out of my mouth, I am ready to walk on pins,
because I'd prefer to forget everything before denying that I walked several times on the same path.
I'm tired of repeating the same cliché,
but the darkness grows and seems to want to devour me.
I'm not scared, because I was the one who spoke in dreams.