In the middle of the shadows
we belong to someone else
and we distinguish the sun
and the river of life.
Once we climb the dark mountain
and the tears of success arise to our inner
song we deserve to feel otherness
as an unequal fall.
And we can’t find neither love nor time
when our tongue flies away speaking louder
this melancholic attachment called
beauty. Then we carry on the cluster of meanings
and once again we repeat the song
trying to build names and sorrow.
But in our seek we decline to forget
and our memory are set as toy
when it sketch is complete
by the storm in our eyes.
We defend our silence
from the noisy talent
because we can’t avoid the march
of colors and tears.

Photo by Andrey Grushnikov on