Mark Spitz

Dusk falls and I rest again
on a gray cloud
smoking over silver
the terror of living.

And everything seems fine
e in this room.
Today I'll stop listening to myself:
-Oh, what I call myself-.

I savor the dampness
that rots in the walls
and seek asylum in the midst of humanity.
But no, I'm not asking for it, please
but out of pity.

The sky broke into tears.

The terror settled in.
A darkness came over
as if the sun were dying.

The wise men are already looking
for some ray of light.
They say they are hidden
beside the Holy Cross.

I savor the dampness
that rots in the walls
and ask for help from all the mediocrity.
But no, I'm not asking you, please,
no, never please
but out of pity.

I wanted to drown my sorrows
but they swam in alcohol
like Mark Spitz.
Today the full moon
has decided to spit at the sun
and I can't make out more
than a piece of song.

Dusk falls and I rest again
on a blue and gray cloud.
I smoke, silver to silver,
the damnation of living.