The prow of the fog

Black, now slave traders
The life is a fort disturbance alcoholic longing
She flees covered with an awning of the soft
and abrupt thick fog of the Palmar
Where the alcohols pursue our existence
The steams are intense, pleasant projects

If we got to wake up, enraged and frustrated stunned
In the invasion of the torpor, of the clamour. I drink, soon I exist!
Of the universal victory: drunks of everyone, I united you!

The prow of the fog doesn't break up, they resume the clouds neurone’s
Of the existence, of the anguish as vehicles in the city without light
With just their lights chaining in movement
As jasmines become yellow trying to meet again the lost sap
of the life

Hidden shadows, of the lost nights
There are no days, just monumental static statues without dawning
In the empty glances, swollen of the lost silence somewhere

This is the sea, ours to navigate of the oil tankers
deprive of commands
no navigated
Substituted whites
for half dozen of black slave traders

Picture: EL PAÍS

Visit me also in: Universal, Universidade, Medicina and X-Files