Wonder by myself each lonely night
behind the mist of wishes, passions and anticipations
at the end of countless phantoms, obsessions and revelations
once I numb tortuous ideas and appealing illusions
and when the unorthodox matches are alight
unchaining questions, trying to find
of those that can't be denied
Neither by my hearth nor by my mind.
Though my breaths sometimes fight,
I scenth, truth is there but my imagination is half blind
and my soul, in the somewhere between of this blight,
still bearing this mediocre life, still terrifed.