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A sweet and ancient sound of peace.



When I walked by street and didn't watch hearts, it was wicked of me.
When I chased a wish while I glanced a mirror, it was wicked of me.
When I chose the hard land of the noises and hurries, it was wicked of me.
When I forgot the life to earn safety, it was wicked of me.
Sometimes we need to rip everything up and start from a scratch,
and begin to live in a different way,
more peacefully and slowy,
getting to know our neighbours,
and sitting everyday to talk for a while to our sons and daughters.
Sometimes we need to draw another life in the existence's canvas,
giving away a dazzling and cool way of being to ourselves.

Make yourself a drink, from my soul's cupboard,
I haven't ice nor stunner liquors.
We can sing a poem near the golden fire of an old big house,
feeling the true depth of this alive instant
while the night cries out there, and the storm sounds far.
We can recite a pray, thinking of the stars
while the dancing shadows of the warming light
smile and create an unique and soft coreography,
only for this moment.
If my brain sleeps, you can stick around,
dreaming of a time of tenderness and childhood.
Then I'm waking up, just to chase your steps,
together we are laughing for nothing or for all.
I'm supposed to not fritter my valuable time
just on doing nothing,
but now, in the stillness, I sip all the life,
meantime the red wood that sings in the fire
fills the home of a sweet and ancient sound of peace.
.
.
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