Here, in a small room,
of white curtains and
bluish walls

listening to music from a
dead artist,
reflecting on nonsense,
laughing at bad decisions.

A book of poetry is lying
on the bed,
its verses escape

And I'm sleepy, but I don't sleep,
and I'm afraid of many things,
and I drink for it

and I am aware of the time wasted
and of destiny, of good luck.

I watch the news and think like everyone else,
"The world is going to hell"

I stretch out in my chair, outside
The clouds are black and I think,
that they are taking a long time to cry.

the storm is approaching and
I wonder,
There will be someone somewhere
capable of supporting us, understanding us
and even love us,

there will still be time and place for
us somewhere
that is not suffering.

Someday I will sleep and
between dreams I will see it arrive...