Literary Yard

Search for meaning


The suffering sun eclipses and takes its distance
Tired of our funeral chants and slanders
Regrets are hard to be found in its cooled shelves.
Since then, our madness has been emboldened by its false defects.

The fog veils the soul of hope and offers us to melancholy.
Who nowadays has not yet drunk the chalice to the dregs?
We are only a game of chance blown by the wind.
Peeping Toms when death has life on our sofas

The long nights reveal their secrets to embracing bodies.
Seduces dreams and reminds us of the oaths of love that have been erased.
The dawn hesitates to transcend our heart and wash away the affront
When our gaze clings to the apparent foggy sky

Death warms the laziness of these wandering days.
On the waves of the old ocean agitated and consenting
Nature rebels and plays its funeral symphony
When the graves call the shrouds to undress the macabre game

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