Why smile at the pain if it remains winged;
On the sides of the photos of each hung portrait;
In mint walls, dressed in organdy;
Moldy by the time of the winged match ...
I would be a fool, crazy! dying! I do not know...
A defunct dead in healthy, lameness?
Down the aisles of passing in webs of embroidered thread;
Amid sweating tears of irony at the stained paper ...
Let me speak of beauty in four painted;
Dark keyed armor for the sun to enter;
And inside it can shine in a party of cold colors.
Am I the same person I went to change;
To feel the light in mirrors reflected in the doors;
In windows, roofs, glass, one does not matter.
Sérgio Gaiafi
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