When fathers
put their sons to sleep,
Next to my bed
an empty chair and a book wait
Only a small wound
remains in the soul,
Which time heals
But in this diary of memories
there is no end
Even if it hurts
my back
I am morning,
which thinks itself evening
I am a whisper,< br/>who hears his voice as a cry
I am a wave
which turns into a sea
Which lacks shores
So these years just roll by
and it almost forgets
On what kind of basis
to really make the effort
Should I look in the closet
or go one day at a time
And be satisfied with what I get
and believe in better
I am caught between two worlds
I am the morning,
which thinks itself evening
I am the whisper,
whose voice is heard as a cry
And I am the wind,
which angers itself into a storm< br/>I am a wave
which turns into a sea
With no shores
In the dark I wander
to everyone
From sunrise to myself
I make a direction
I am the morning
which thinks itself evening
I am the whisper
whose voice is heard as a cry
And I am the wind
which angers itself into a storm
I am the morning
And I am the wind

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