The wrinkled fingers get dirty
with the dusty objects.
The memories get dirty
when it talks about the wins.
– Noise is big, but the heart is more.
I'm too old for the world
and the world is too old for me.
Don't think I'm deep man,
because I'm not, at least not like this.
– I'm bored therefore I write you.
Without me the machine doesn't express itself
and therefore it stops existing in hurry.
Oh let this pass!
– It's over, Vicent, it's over! You're gone and now I am.
It always sounds in vain,
trying to say their names with affection.
Oh please let them in peace!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem