Épica [English translation]

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