What am I doing here?
Just walking in a world of shadows
Following each other searching for something
That will never exist
About what can I talk about?
Just blabbing around
In a world in which all is said
And what’s left is the weak whisper o a great dead poet
What can I do here?
Just strolling in a field covered with copses
Of ancients judges who knew here truth lived
And for that they had been killed.
What am I waiting for?
Just the great cold
That will fall on me someday
Death, the only certainty I have
In a world in which all had been spoiled.