Everything happens
Everything is,
But him ours is to happen,
To pass making roads,
Roads on the sea.
I never pursued the glory,
Neither to leave
In the memory
Of people my song;
I love the subtle worlds,
Weightless and gentile,
As soap pomps…

I like to see them
Put on makeup
Of sun and
It seeds to fly
Under the blue sky,
To tremble
All of a sudden and to be
Broken...

I never pursued the glory.

Walker, they are your prints
The road and nothing else;
Walker, is not road, it
Is made in route to walking.
When being walked he makes
Road and when returning the
View behind leave the path
That never one steps again.

Walker is not road
But trails in the sea...
Some time ago in that place
Where today the forests
Get dressed of thorns
The voice of a poet
Was heard scream
"Walker is not road,
It is made in route to walking..."

The poet died far from the home.
It covers him the powder
Of a neighboring country.
When moving away
They were seen cry.

When the goldfinch cannot sing.
When the poet is a pilgrim,
When of anything
It serves us to pray.

Blow to blow, verse to verse.

---

Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.