I have been a man who has known shadows. Man awake at the foot of his words, waiting for that one day that comes tiptoe in twenty years, that does not come, or that can roll us between the phalanxes.
Your loneliness warms my throat
and your silence is in my pockets.
Your look scares me.
I have been a rural man and a citizen, ashy as the skies of gloomy Novembers and clear as your laughter with the voice of a priest. Yaro. Man of good meetings and even better farewells. Man of as many episodes as there are paths used by thought.
Your loneliness warms my throat
and your silence walks in my pockets.
Your look scares me.
I have been a uninhabited man, passed away, soul in pain of coasts that grind their sands when there are no bodies left to burn, when the sun no longer bites because it continues its flight and its almanac.
Your loneliness warms my throat
and Your silence is in my pockets.
Your look scares me.
I have been a man who sings his identification for tomorrow, gusts of cyclones, dust from his shoes. I have been a man who has nothing else to say other than the oldest search, return, company, hope “hope, gentlemen, hope†as simple as hope sounds! br/>Your loneliness warms my throat
and your silence is in my pockets.
Your look scares me.
I have been a man disarmed by applauded solitudes, for years of vigil, by cotton caravans, by myriads of passing moons that came, that come, that will come. I have been a man as I still am, who has been walking towards you since then, moving aside the branches to touch your cheeks, to kiss your intelligent eyes, waiting for your prophetic silence (mmmmm) for your prophetic silence... br/>Your loneliness warms my throat
and your silence is in my pockets.
Your look scares me.

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