There’s no reason. I’m not going to lie.
The sun hangs satisfied over the nothing new.
The silly battles, joys and rubble of your body,
will never alter a constellation. Sanity
will evade you with time, madness turn
into pleasure itself, and love, yes, love,
will always ask for a more unaccustomed wine.

One day you will drop your heart on the green
horizon like a drop of blood in a glass of water,
and all other things will remain but you.
Unimportant, indifferent things, such as color,
rain, a certain sense of beauty and mystery.
A tear between the lashes of your eyes,
a carmine in the silent lines of your lips, waiting.

And no, child, no, there will be no better reason
to stay than to leave, when dreams and memories
will have faded one by one, when time will have gone
at the speed of light, depriving you of History.
No better reason to inhabit this vast orphanage
set for you, than the great insolence of living.

There’s no reason. Life is a fragile thing.
That strange autumn light playing in your hair,
the fruit suffused with its own sweetness,
Desire — that will always be its final call.

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