Through my window
I couldn't find the paths of happiness
yet on my wall
there was a pair of pinned epic faces
suggesting a way
as a daydream of tomorrow.
Bashful - desperate - lonely
fancying of a blatant hero that could pay back all troubles
a spine-chilling shout that could upset all my smooth silences
worried - outcast - but still alive
looking for a manly angel that could restore my Eden
or figuring out a way to become that one.
He was just a kid.
He broke his toys and then silently cried.
He tried to forget that silence, and his white hours on the fireplace, softly recounting a story he never had.
Once he sniffed the city concrete and managed to get up.
He became the man his childish tales were fancying about, the man all the whispers had failed to portray.
So now he can speak.
What if that child could know he's the unexpected hero of his own man's present talks and dreams?
We bet he would shout. Quit that melancholic autism, dream of himself.
No more lies: he could finally shout.
So today there hangs a looking-glass
as well as an ancient childish self-portrait
well now I'm the hero of my own hero
God in my Heaven
cloud of my storms
I'm the horizon the path and my shoes
I'm the boat and I'm the wave.
Selfish - charming - and serene
master of my days
no rhetorics and no more fucking lies
a child cosily wearing his clothes
I'm still alone
I'm still that one.