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To what can I assign

my moments of realism and solitude

If I get drunk with dreams and privation

I find myself caught by my anguish

and fear in some morbid and dark

recesses of my being

I go on dilacerate past facts

to fulfill an unchanging

and conformist present

Days and nights seems endless

and offer me no pleasure

and when it is late, very late

I come across ghosts of my existences

smothered in labyrinths formed by

my complete impotence to face reality

the way my solitude treads

is divided in abysses and dreams

the entrances and exits are closed to me

in this mean universe yearning for lies

where I play the main part