Rivers of badly wounded people run alone, spitting out their failure.
Already beaten, they will wait, as they’ve always done, for a one-night adventure,
While they cry out of anger and love for a non-existent name,
While they laugh amidst ephemereal clouds, more distant every day.
They run alone, following paths to where they’d find a refuge from action,
A friend whom they might not have seen much, or an offering of meat
Which, at times, when the first fire goes out, can hurt even more.
And that’s how they finish, when all is already gone, burnt by the truth and shouting:
I’ll be able to go back when I’m too far away.
I’ll be able to go back when it’s too late.
They are brothers on a path that has never had exit nor end,
They know very well that darkness is the future and that black is the colour
of a flag, dirty and full of sang, that was pushed into their hands.
And yet they don’t give up, they keep up illusions, turn songs into anthems and shout:
I’ll be able to go back when I’m too far away.
I’ll be able to go back when it’s too late.