We visited that abandoned house.
We shouted our names for nothing.
We ran through streets before nightfall.
We hoped not to become that being.
Yes, ephemeral was our childhood
therefore I tell it with such elegance.
No, it wasn't a wastage
neitheir became an addiction.
Many envied our joviality
as well as our age.
Many planned our future;
always good and bad, never pure.
They disappeared with his yearnings.
They kidnapped her dreams.
They burned my memories with a candle.
They marked out our soft skin.
In all those years,
I've imagined which getting old
was a problem to solve.
And, looking back, I see us as insane.
Well, we are grown up now
and childhood must become forgettable,
however, it will never be possible...
remembering all won't be a delay.
Jonas Goncalves's Other Poems
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