I’ll drink tonight for one last time,
to the shameless mistakes
and the whores and their price
to the violins and the trumpets
that bear no longer sounds
and the timelessness ruling
words of pain and of loss
and to all those goodbyes
that were proper and just
and yet felt more like a silence
imposed by a ruthless companion
that we need call our fate
but is, in truth, just ourself
who keeps splitting our souls
into halves and in pieces
and proceeds to hide them
beneath masks that seem fearless
and complete, brave and whole
or wise, pure and the like,
but upon fixed stares they reveal
cracks and flaws, stories untold
of dreams lost, dreams acquired
and dreams forced to forget
in tomorrows that approach
sooner than we ever expected
and a past that glows brilliantly
behind us, shunning the future
and immerses every effort
in a lake called despair
until a new, yet doomed, cycle
turns our heads to directions
previously seen, but dismissed
and for a moment, perhaps longer
we may hope for a change
of existence and of mind
but above all we may hope
to forget how much
we miss it all.
