Not love, hate or ambition
but something else deep
Fluctuates like the mercury of a barometer
In my middle-aged soul.
Sometimes I crave to see the limits of time
From one illusion to another
They move in the eyes of an intent fatigued caravan.

Round and round all around
It braces to acquire the tiniest bit of water
And hope dances in the cells of the body,
The last evening of the winter,
painted in the sky, shivers.

The sound of someone's faith
Moves near a known grave
In the deepest core of the soul
not love, hate or lust
something else deep
In the valley of the wind swift and electric
Inside the clouds, in tigers' head
moves with the speed of a deer
Not love, hate, lust or ambition
Something else indefinite and deep.