Step by step, my feet leave a trace on the asphalt of dreams, some of them satisfy desires, and others left behind in the past as a print of failure. Many people frequent this place : lovely faces, nameless heroes, writers that are known only by readers who believe in National Literature Alone, painters, soldiers
and me, a dude that wanders around for the sake of honoring his mother since she indirectly ask him to go with her, so he directly obey in a very honest obedience.
Im spitting rhymes and truths. Resisting myself to be controlled by the rhythm, this is not a mere wish but a desperate mission. Social shame is not an option; Im under the sight of a tremendous crowd.
Control yourself! Control yourself! I whisper over and over again.
Its working.
The smile on my face is a visible and tangible evidence of the fact that this instant its taking part of a joy that invades each space of my mind. This is my celebration.After four years, my eyes avoid the temptation to cry. This park have dads name written all over place. In the core of my childhood, I can vividly remember our baseball games in the summer. He always let me win. Dad came to this park twice a day till he got sick with liver cancer. Everybody knew him, maybe more than I did. Mom says that she always remember dads legs as she walks here. In her own words: He had skinny legs and she loved them, I guess. maybe one day, without expecting it, I might see your fathers legs walking on this park again she says, but Im pretty sure she will only see him in her memories.
Step by step, my feet leave a trace on the asphalt of tender memories and lack of fear. The sunset is coming, the wrath of the sun quenches, according to our own perception. Is time to rest the lonely cloud shouts over the firmament (if such a thing is possible), ignorant cloud that is unaware. Oh, dont you know my dear that the sun never rest? He only moves for a while.
I see the skies. My lips cant find any term to paint a canvas capable of reviling the hidden answers my hearts abide. Is a secret for me as it is to all who listen the eccentric and peculiar passion I have for existing. To feel like I feel is not usual, it doesnt fit to the standard of society. It must be a decease that has no cure. Its the illness of those who crave for life, the disorder that I always wanted to have inside my chest, the sickness that treasures the beauty of things, the malady of the poets, novelists, writers and dreamers. Dont turn your heart into a stone, Dont turn your heart into a stone! I whisper over and over.
The masses have lost everything; they surrendered to the frivolous thoughts and cold-hearted minds only to please reason and understanding of this age we live in. But, my knees only bow down to the heavens, splendid, gorgeous and radiant custody that reigns over my head. My heart is safe in the hands of the sunset: Whom shall I fear?
Im spitting rhymes and truths. Resisting myself to be controlled by the rhythm, this is not a mere wish but a desperate mission. Social shame is not an option; Im under the sight of a tremendous crowd.
Control yourself! Control yourself! I whisper over and over again.
Its working.
The smile on my face is a visible and tangible evidence of the fact that this instant its taking part of a joy that invades each space of my mind. This is my celebration.After four years, my eyes avoid the temptation to cry. This park have dads name written all over place. In the core of my childhood, I can vividly remember our baseball games in the summer. He always let me win. Dad came to this park twice a day till he got sick with liver cancer. Everybody knew him, maybe more than I did. Mom says that she always remember dads legs as she walks here. In her own words: He had skinny legs and she loved them, I guess. maybe one day, without expecting it, I might see your fathers legs walking on this park again she says, but Im pretty sure she will only see him in her memories.
Step by step, my feet leave a trace on the asphalt of tender memories and lack of fear. The sunset is coming, the wrath of the sun quenches, according to our own perception. Is time to rest the lonely cloud shouts over the firmament (if such a thing is possible), ignorant cloud that is unaware. Oh, dont you know my dear that the sun never rest? He only moves for a while.
I see the skies. My lips cant find any term to paint a canvas capable of reviling the hidden answers my hearts abide. Is a secret for me as it is to all who listen the eccentric and peculiar passion I have for existing. To feel like I feel is not usual, it doesnt fit to the standard of society. It must be a decease that has no cure. Its the illness of those who crave for life, the disorder that I always wanted to have inside my chest, the sickness that treasures the beauty of things, the malady of the poets, novelists, writers and dreamers. Dont turn your heart into a stone, Dont turn your heart into a stone! I whisper over and over.
The masses have lost everything; they surrendered to the frivolous thoughts and cold-hearted minds only to please reason and understanding of this age we live in. But, my knees only bow down to the heavens, splendid, gorgeous and radiant custody that reigns over my head. My heart is safe in the hands of the sunset: Whom shall I fear?
