Being young is air, planets, spaces. Planning
on the cliffs within a skeleton of bones
green ... all mild, perpetual, incomprehensible. Being young is
agile legs, the look of summer in your eyes, always ready sex.
The breath with the scent of mint.
Being young is an invisible shield that protects against the rigors of watches, finite
the scourge of seconds, minutes, hours, months ...
that one day soon, we will be or have been.
Being young is to collect, like a sweet waltz, the planting of the first drops of light
each new dawn and go paying
in the evenings
chest and precious unforeseen
float and another on the flesh, clawing just his smoothness,
just rusting seams, barely piercing
swollen soul in it.
Being young is an office of fakir who laughs rusty knitting needles the scourge of seconds, minutes, hours, months ...
that one day soon, we will be or have been.
Being young is to collect, like a sweet waltz, the planting of the first drops of light
each new dawn and go paying
in the evenings
chest and precious unforeseen
float and another on the flesh, clawing just his smoothness,
just rusting seams, barely piercing
swollen soul in it.
and flocks of black crows. Someone
elusive cemeteries
climbs the tallest towers look nothing
and necklaces made with barbed wire.
But every morning the exhausted
fakir will rise and the perforated bowel because of Collecting Monday, offices,
circles, squares of the statement of income
red, orgasms, notes, disappointments, Euribor ...
And dreams will dust
and hopes faded heart,
and only then, surrounded by the rusty autumn
the rubble and ruins of what once dreamed he would
the fakir will realize
definitely youth that he had been slipping away
of his hands, as if
sand or water.
With hardly any pain.
Greetings Jim.
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