LAST CYCLE © 2008
Today should not be a day for writing,
But what to do with this restless soul,
That cannot free itself from the cursed will,
Which torments and stirs the thoughts?
They gather, like soldiers marching,
Some, generals, already commanding the sorrow,
Supreme in their moans, in familiar pains,
Others, maidens, timid and restrained.
Outpourings that arise with fear and trembling,
Fearing to expose the most intimate taste.
For the inquisition, in severe silence,
Disapproves of what is original and sincere.