What we do, at last, shall make us get,
What men know are few opulent days and penurious weeks,
Keep knowing the betrayed eyes and fragile shrieks
Until the tears swell our fate.
God, paint me with darkness,
Matters it not to me,
The world isn't that what we urge to see.
(A tedious journey, few selfish names and greedy faces.)
Death, make me yours and what with me it is,
Soon, within my transient days and weeks.
Let me blow with the heaven's breeze
As here, neither ceases the emotions nor the time's shrieks.
When we blink, what we see, death is it,
If not, men shall be god and this world shall never exist.