In basement (there is) a tunnel toward heavens
The morning looms a dark goblin on a thin gauze
with gloomy face, alone with sins
in the corridor without return.
Into the black shrub my bird embroiled
raptured by the vibrations of the Northern star
And breath is late while cold steal
of scalpel glides down the thread of chaplet.
There is a plan that angels steal her
or at least for a moment to return her among them
because sometimes heaven makes a beautiful ballad
and searches for a rhyme for the main verse.
Soft white legion storms on the city,
January spreads its refined carpet
The first snow and me are in a secret collusion
that winter waits for her trace.
Stories that I know cannot help,
(they are) fibbers for sleepy eyes
I fable a fairy tale, strange, upside down
lullaby
to make her stay awake.
There is a road that chooses passers-by,
a mystified road always prone to the best (people)
because heaven sometimes plays only black keys
and searches for a note for that tone.
Somewhere alone, one boy confusedly
stands on the bridge
because he abodes that you exist.
Somewhere inside you some shackled song waits
which no one alive yet knows
Inside you jingles a chain with secret rings,
you will be a mother to mothers.
There is a plan that angels steal her
or at least for a moment to return her among them
because sometimes heaven makes a beautiful ballad
and searches for a rhyme for the main verse.
There is a road that chooses passers-by,
a mystified road always prone to the best (people)
because heaven sometimes plays only black keys
and searches for a note for that tone.