LAST CYCLE © 2008
Blank books, absorb without delay,
The soul in manifestations, that screams and weeps.
It needs to purge the illusions it carries,
In a deep relief, where the heart surrenders.
Humanity, lost, does not know how to create bonds,
Trapped in its fears, embarrassed in its steps.
But if it could freely speak, without evasions,
That truth is born in dialogues, in yearnings.
When someone weaves us with threads of illusion,
Wrapping us in a web of pure creation,
It makes us feel like eternal artists of the world,
Where the stage is life, and the dream, the track.