In the pitiful corridors
for years I was looking for myself,
the punk, the drunk,
the thirsty poet.
A pile of books I’m carrying,
somehow I must have forgotten to exit my dreams,
nightmares of the rain of
the tired poet.
Two shadows were drown in smoke.
Two ghosts, and I with Irene,
inside the turbulence two silhouettes,
the forgotten poet.
And if I got dizzy by life,
knowledge immaculate will enter the darkness
of my soul, a prayer to
the drunken poet.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem