domingo, 6 de janeiro de 2013

Rays of (my) Existence

From the wombs of hell,
madness is born.
For I cannot raise myself,
I'm the unfortunate
whose life ends well.

Let the pity go,
let me be unknown,
let me be me.

Reason for something I do not wish,
or the exile for my soul
penetrating the tombs made of feathers,
the poetry written in letters,
and the lost eyes locked inside
the prison of our own mind.

Let me be
all alone.
But do not go,
unless my poetry
falls in decay.

And I wish I were sad
to explain the existence of these words.
But I am not, therefore,
their malice shall remain
truly misunderstood.

Ricardo Rodrigues

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