The empire : a man without money

Salve, salve….



The empire : a man without money

There used to be a lonely
Time when religion
Was our hope.

Today, our religion
Is money.

This man,
Long hair,
Torn trousers,
This man
Traded everything
For love.

He walks the street
Amidst strangers.

That woman,
She has a fancy
She turns
Her head
With grace
To a pretender.

He has a silk
On silk suit.

We are the prophets
With no lies,
We hate to cheat,

And only the arm
Of a brother
Can save us.

Our parents,
The old generation,
Believe in matter,
But for us it doesn’t

We need to set ourself
Free with our feelings
And our judgment.

Do you feel ?

The birth of a poem
In hedonistic
And bored
Is touching,

But not enough
To provoke
From all woes
Coz everything
Needs to
Be convenient ;

Our greatest
In which we loose
Our freedom ;

( He is no
As the tenth
Of knowledge
And defined
It as the abduction
By higher forces,
The fact of enduring
Life basically,
Rather than to act on it.
Are we crazy enough
To follow common sense
Till the end of it ?

Have you heard
Of that architect
Who committed
Suicide at the height
Of his success ?

Isn’t it more healthy
To drop the shell
And speak with our
Hearts without interested
Politics and double bottom
Cupboards ?

Is it too demanding
That we be transparent,
That we love each other,
For the best and for
The worse that comes
Only when ready?
( if and only if
You follow the cycle
Of life)

The passion
For gaining
At all
Is too strong,

Then ,
When the midnight

We sit alone in
Our room
A serie

In our so called


I have the privilege
Of scorn,
I turn my back
On ineptia
And weakness.

What if our
Phones come
To disappear?

One day,
O terrible day,
We will have
No strength
Nor intercessor.

Beware. And hope.

For all will be solved
Once and for all,
The final note
Of our symphony.

It will prove either
Or full of energy
To rise one last
Time to the skies…

And never come back.



All rights reserved. 2019.


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