Outburst.
Doing, of the sonnet, a vent, where could to imagine
a happiest time without the bitterness of the pain,
fears, and since I will escape the costume
falls to me, even of clown or buffoon.
Wanted joy, I am not,
well before this dream,
in vain, tumbling down.
I reach the farthest tempest and drink,
without affection, the wind,
Only my friend, poetry,
still sees the false freedom.
Have loved, I was not happy?
Well fuck it!
My soul survives without exit.
Marcos Loures
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