Delírio

Eram seres
de sons estranhos
de vidas tortas
lugar algum

Parecia
mas não era um sonho
era um delírio
do cão bebum

The rush of the red dust - An ode to the toxic smoke

When I take off my glasses
the world seem to rest
my head
oh yeah
my heavy head
becomes lighter
and starts to fly

Long and long and long
live
life
leave
me
leaf
leaves
liver
long
live
Liv...

And I'll be there
to catch you,
baby

The world and the dust
that burns and burns and burns

The dust
must be some kind of
hidden metaphore
of an imaginary life

It flies and blows and goes
pushed by the wind
as the old singer sang once

Yeah
I must be getting old, man
Incredible and
melancholic.
Unavoidably
old.

I wish I could
- as (or with) the red
dust -
fly

I wish
I could be
that noble.

But I ain't.

High temperatures,
Farenheits,
Celsius,
Kelvins,

High temperatures,
Highs and lows,
High hopes.

But
at the very end
it
all becomes
dust.

Again.