IT WAS THUS In one afternoon dull that the Sun teimava in playing of being moon perhaps cries out me, Without wanting, or to the fondness of the Universe, its look lights what not even the sun made, In one ' ' tiro' ' , in one to blink, my soul, without knowing, is complained. Without perceiving the intention and in an instinct ' ' minimalesco' ' , it comes the fear and I run sea pro, to Its comforts me abundance. Its sound inebria me. Always! Trying to run away from what the Destination already had traced, the cold wind brings me to the tripping, To the side, with a look dissimulating to be lost, but hearing the whisper of my indifferent outcry, it waits me to you. I do not know if my love, if my disaster, or if my arrest (now I know that my confinement). Enraged for the insistence of its obscure look, I arrive until you.

I invade its soul, consumption its seiva and in this I discover my pain, at a moment of heat, still painless. In a meeting of souls, each one finds its oasis, kills its hunger and ceases its headquarters. The night, the bottle of wine, the waves, all, in a ledo deceit, smile pra me, the wound, despite disfarada of love, as kiss of a vampire, if opens and anesthesia. Today, perhaps for will of God or whim of the Devil, nor another love, that until tried, does not obtain to cure, what the proper love judged to be.