My life is made of emotions,

passions and horrors, 'cause when you truly

live you can even fall into deep pain

My bed is made of small fresh leaves,

moving slowly like a requiem

My temple is made of dark gloomy trees,

coming loose along a black oval path

My chant is a desperate and irreverent elegy,

composed in honour of those who have no reserve and fear

Hordes of maleficent and false sins come back upon me.

Shall I ever let my mind wander over the sad effect

this filthy disease causes to my limbs and to my heart?

I believe the persistence of the thin line of hope is worth this effort

I believe its benefice can reach the intensity

of full and perpetual delight

Nothing is true, all is allowed

In every dramatic situation there is

a subtended element of absurdity and humor

Every dogma contains something unhealthy and corrosive

Our identities change every day with our memories

We are not always what we really are, 'cause we reinvent ourselves

We change our skin and consistence

And we lie with innocence, trusting our memory.