GREAT SOUL IN MY COUNTRY 2 © 2008

Sometimes I write in a kind of sadness,

With a pragmatic gaze that dazzles the coldness,

This empty emotion, which does not flow through the usual veins,

The ones the soul would desire for the authenticity of its sighs.

That sadness which tears with deep cuts,

Wounds the driest tear, that the soul itself chokes,

Forcing it to be savoured by a thousand distant worlds,

Where the gazes of the deceased yearn for moments.

They yearn for its milk, like food from the womb,

A final drop of life, which death does not deny,

And in this sadness, I write, with a heavy and cold hand,

Unveiling the void that the soul once covered.

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