Tuesday, August 6, 2013


Do you really exist when you do not appear for hours?
Should I consider myself alone, in times of sorrow
And single in times of hope?
Not that the latter (hope, I mean) strikes me often.

In every moment of solitude,
Which follows a less worrisome one,
Ego flies a little farther
And gives way to incomprehensible encumbrance.

As imagination sees you work hard and make merry,
And return exhausted with not much time to spare,
My mind silently shouts out a piteous entreaty
To be delivered from this restlessness, unless you feel it too.

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