And I was back
from all the trips
with a wounded soul
I love you, you see.
I will be what you prefer
your light or your shadow
or perhaps a carpet
kissing your feet.
Woe is you, woe is me,
neither you nor I are guilty:
unhappy fools who fell into this love
that is an unforgivable mistake
woe is you, woe is me.
And you who always said
be intelligent
not like those people
that dies of love.
This way you will know that the rose
is a rose because it is beautiful
and not because a flower breathes in it.
Oh for you, woe for me.
Life is the spoiled,
ferocious dictatorship
of a creature
that plays at commanding.
Neither you nor I are anyone,
We don't even make history
because we are the scum
that can still burn.

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