sailing through the dunes of a desert
dehydrated by the heat of discouragement,
thirsting to find the oasis with the end of silence
as if it were a modern Ponce de Léon ...
without the easy verb of a bard,
I write some words in a vain attempt
to bring hope back to days of color
filling an exhausted world in a palette of gray ...
while I drag myself without even knowing why,
the ice from the inner abyss drains me the energy
that not even the spring of my eyes refreshes
In a nightmare of hieronymus bosch ...
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