You will be someplace
giving sense to the air and things
justifying the route
of the helicopters and the doves
Like usually, you look
at a delirium of birches and palm trees
returning to the moon
its old plains
its colour of stars
you will arrange your hair
drawing tears among the ruins
of the silences of the marble
you cleared the numbers of your smile
Friend of the cyclists,
of the crazy ones, of the anteaters
of the waiters, of the seas,
of the dreams of the lichen in the snowdrifts
without you, no song is possible
neither does the day breathe its best winds
and something with something sad
rests on my lips and gives me silence
you burn my doubts
you light up my hopes
and fall asleep in my bed
and wake up like to a party
the morning is yours
For those who dream themselves
without a smile
for those who go
where the songs are trembling
that they will never sing