Right or wrong,
perhaps between a rite of a wright man
a righteous beast can be born,
or die again.

Its only to write on the hard stone
that all that surrounds our name
is written as:
it doesn’t matter how much you know of it
you will always wish to know less.

Believing in living with mistakes,
leaving when the hour is exact
and if the man knows more.

Borning, dying with the colours of sympathy,
and yet pale,
disgraced from the pain of life.

I’m crying
as if sense was me.
Dumbed by the virgin innocence of wise disappointment.

Life is smarter than the man,
and it writes in a grasped air
with the irony of control
of our own time,
in anecdotes of the lost kingdom of humans.

I’m playing
beholding the board of infinite moves
hurt by all this truth about