This is a story about a sad man.
A sad man along the sidewalks of a nameless night.
No lights, when he loses his head and hits
The oppressive smell of the church seats.
He was poor and lean; he was hanging around
Strange streams, wearing wooden rings just found.
The night seemed to turn white, a weak light down from the roofs
While his tired road didn’t walk him through
It was a thousand insects road.
He ate flies on the way, waiting for the day
Like a chained black slave beating the city grave.
That was a strange night, near the station
Rain’s streams and people’s dreams.
The sad man staring at the post office
Speaking with lovebirds about freedom and duties;
Rats running around him, little sons of a bad God
The sad man cried, in their place, tasting pain in his face.
He thought of the sea, the dream, this dirty throat
His boat in the storm, and the worms.
The sad man was tired, after starving days
Wet by nobody’s rain, quenching thirst with ember’s ray.
Waiting for the day to undress the shutters on the park
Just there, behind the post office in the dark.
But what if those windows would no longer open up?
No more light on the seagull’s nest
Only moms and families running to west.
Always waiting for something, while the night turns
And the first rose petals get wet announcing returns.
A cold land fulfils remembers, moving under his hand
Upon the head, crows singing ancient world songs mad.
Another rat escaped from his colleagues
And the man digging up the soil
Perhaps he found freedom, those nails full of sand,
His silent skin without faith for the sin.
The sad man, in the lovebirds’ park, like a just born fool
Like a roses’ burning pyre, will sing again
About the closed salt window, in a black song of death and roads.
He will write about mice by him, no wings, immoral codes
And Christ will use the sorrow to make more bread for his sated patients.
All would have been told, if the silence permitted that
If the cross were on some lower steps.
Slowly, he went on his way, with a book under the arm
On the chest tight, looking at those roses wet, and the roofs crying rain
The sound of his past life, the dance of his fingers on the paper
Once again picked up with roses and brides, joyful friends held
Everyone dead, in the lost corners of his head.
But nothing he will find, only worms and useless goodbyes
Sweet oblivion of memory, a stupid talkin’ story
A slim hand crying with no eyes and sand
Drops of blood along the rising place, just sang.