Behind the empty corner of the walls,
The farthest horizon of my house,
Behind the walls
Decayed
By the warmth
Of the heating elements,
Behind the walls,
Bottoms of cigarettes,
Burnt tobacco and weeds,
Empty bottles of wine,
There is a place.
Behind the walls,
Pharaonic pyramids,
European castles and chateaus,
And under,
The soil of an old tomb,
And underneath,
Skeletons of genocides,
A grave within a blood-sucking soul
Trapped
And underneath,
Worms,
Graves of common people,
Behind aboriginal spoiled grass
Or savages
Or submissive immigrant plants
Carrying bitter fruits.
Behind the unseeable
Is a place.
"She is behind the sun,
Warm and full of passion,
Yet nobody looks at her."
She saw behind the fear
In the eyes of a blind man
Who could see the aging of the sun,
Yet nobody wishes anymore
To unburden themselves
To a man with no material eyes.
Inside the ill-tempered chest of old experiences,
Maybe there is an unfinished story.
Its withholders,
Whether they found happiness in life
Or left the earth in misery,
Closed eyes
To old stingy pains,
But where can you find a luminous book
Not bound to half-burned hearts?
So, you! Oh, my cheerful dear!
Write down the fairy part of our tale,
Oh, you the best in everyone's life!
Behind beards, there is a deep cut.
Behind withheld tears, there are falls.
Behind our fears, and our deceived failures of feelings,
Behind half-seen, disturbing nightmares,
On vividly fallen apart nights,
Behind the walls,
There is a place.
There is a place,
Behind fatigue.
She is dreaming there,
