The fate sometimes mendacious approaching fast
perhaps to intimate tenderness outrage
to patch desperate whispers and little havoc
playing to simulate the last great apocalypse
to measure the void that attacks and rejects diligent
but keeping in mind the painful step
in the fleeting moment of raw closed verdict
boredom rejected by force into the dark attic
even if nothing and then nothing less than the whisper
grants swinging scented believe
net cancellation of argument that makes you laugh
the theme of farewell sublimated in motto ready to screech
as persistent wheeze that a light wind chases
for a short time in the dim half-light without peace
where desire and expectation seems shorter scornful
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