I am the last poet of the lands of Antares.
For so many generations ,longing for the end
that haunts my soul .
I\'m writing to the children
I didn\'t invite to weading feast ,
waiting in the womb of the sphere
or asleep in the maze ...
I bid farewell to the oriental mornings
awakening at sunset and balancing
on an unstable galactic carpet .
Painter of weather climates ,
traveler in these braziers of eternal ice.
Stranger exiled in the spicy perfume
of a summer night ,
plucked from the crimson
of a cloudy death ...
Solitary walker ,
trapped in a bubble of sideral despair ,
born at the source of scripture
in the haze of inspired ...
This demented rounds of atoms
lost in the mirror of memories...
Does nothingness wears
the mask of the wise serpent ?
Crowds laugh in the book of illusions...
I\'m just this wanderer
in the mirage of the moment ,
molecular hologram ,
swept by solar winds .
In the long red plain of Antares,
masters teach me the sacred of eternity...