Who wants to talk to me about peace?
And that everything is right?
That all dark storms lived
just played a part of a bad time?
Because birds are in a big jail
of a blue sky made whit black smoke,
because the sad war of dangerous mind
is tired to bleed, is tired to talk.
And pure souls of natural things
are saturated of heartless pain,
and simples hearts that cry for blood
says that the world will never change.
Who wants to talk to me about peace?
That sweet perfum of a flower
forever will fly in the air striping from
its reign to the damned power.
Who wants to talk to me about peace?
Who wants to talk to me about truth?
That the sun never again will shine
and the queen will be a dark moon.
Marzo 2010
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