In front of my window there is a tree

In front of my window there is a tree
dry, pale, stunted, evergreen
of a blushing green in a gloomy
and mourning atmosphere.

I was born old,
tired and different,
It's not that I feel old,
I've always been old
I was born with longing,
with sleeplessness
like a plucked clover for luck
like hay or moss growing between the branches
rotting everything in sterile dampness
I was born old and had no childhood.

I'm just a fungus in the devil's groin
blackened skin and sudden itching,
I'm not even good at saying what I feel
ripped from the womb
without more than a life,
a death that is postponed
and a million memories.

I don't want to move,
it doesn't matter what for
always have to move even if nothing is done,
disgusting insects crawl up my bed
they dirty my sheets and meander in a thousand bodies
squeezing and suffocating my memories,
because when I was born old
I only have that.

Why if I am nothing, I feel everything?
a cynical grimace smile is drawn
on my face healed of scars and wrinkles,
if my beginning was already an end since then,
and death the only medicine
I have left
accepting everything
with a lot of rum.
why do I keep moving?

Poema sobre la vida y la existencia, a veces una se cansa del espectáculo y del maldito Sol... pero hay que seguir haciendo crujir el hueso, güerito.

Le dejo un temita. Xddd

Cheers!!
you with the captain... (morgan)
I drink Bud... red

Pantematico dijo:

In front of my window there is a tree
dry, pale, stunted, evergreen
of a blushing green in a gloomy
and mourning atmosphere.

I was born old,
tired and different,
It's not that I feel old,
I've always been old
I was born with longing,
with sleeplessness
like a plucked clover for luck
like hay or moss growing between the branches
rotting everything in sterile dampness
I was born old and had no childhood.

I'm just a fungus in the devil's groin
blackened skin and sudden itching,
I'm not even good at saying what I feel
ripped from the womb
without more than a life,
a death that is postponed
and a million memories.

I don't want to move,
it doesn't matter what for
always have to move even if nothing is done,
disgusting insects crawl up my bed
they dirty my sheets and meander in a thousand bodies
squeezing and suffocating my memories,
because when I was born old
I only have that.

Why if I am nothing, I feel everything?
a cynical grimace smile is drawn
on my face healed of scars and wrinkles,
if my beginning was already an end since then,
and death the only medicine
I have left
accepting everything
with a lot of rum.
why do I keep moving?

Haz clic para expandir...

Nice, old man. You start to live when you be old, thats what. I like to read you. Luciana.