Would you really turn forty without having ever lived? at the foot of a dark path,
hope on what is hidden behind the altrostratus grows unceasingly.
The circular dance of the blind,
where impressive dead trees turn blood-red,
and washing me, the mist dyes the earth plainly.
The top in unattainable, Iím soaked with pain,
loved onesí fondness passes through me and doesnít last.
What has become of that child who dressed trees with their fallen leaves, in the winter?
Iím lying on the ground, exhausted, weak-willed.
A dim light approaches through the mist,
the scarlet reflections of the forest light up the face of the lantern maker that lays me on his shoulder.
Itís the heat of my brother.
27 years of inner conflict, dysphoria and suicidal planning hold my hand.
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