I follow the path that I like to follow,
The path that leads to blue gray.
The opposite road to the orange sunset
It is the way I like to follow,
Where the clouds feel forgotten by the red sun, soft shadows of tree and rock,
Phantom and loneliness touching the cold melody that embraces
Breeze fed by moon and abandon.
Sleeping birds and silence broken by a single sound.
The stealthy step of my shadow going before my unsteadily walk,
Because I have doubts and uncertainty, unwritten poetry, music without composing and unpainted paintings.
It is the way I like to follow.
Not lead to any country.
It is the river that flows into my own thinking.
Blue Gray my time, blue gray my dialect.
It dies when there is no moon, it dies when the sun rises.
For your eyes the path does not exist.
Nobody else follows the way that I like to go because nobody cares.
Who wants to come and mourn to moisten the soil that can germinate only melancholy?
Who wants to smile to the gray rain that soaks the willow?
Who will play the dead one's guitar who felt in love with the grave of his beloved?
Walk along the wooden walkways where his wife escaped of the naughty games and he caught her.
She paid the price for her freedom with a kiss.
No one follows the way I like to follow.
They all flee of the raven and the pen loaded with sorrows,
They all flee of the swing where the spectral girl meets crystalline.
My world is dying; they all will end up by being moonstruck wayfarers in the way that I like to follow.
Broken photos, imperceptible echoes, infantile laughs that they drown for the noise of silence.
Garden of roses without petals, old notebooks, rusty diaries.
Not well-read poems, efforts of a lover that were vain.
The way that I like to follow it covers of fog.
It is not possible to see, cannot follow.
It is not possible to go out.
Where am I? Anyone can hear me?