There will always be
A better argument.
There will always be
Doubt within open thoughts.

Stressing them long enough
Will lead to, inevitably, fatigue.
Not less an argument
To keep seeking
A wider truth.

Every truth ceases to exist
If tested long enough.

To hate hate is different than hate
But as far as possible to love.

That's the way with negatives:
They look like they cancel themselves
But math never found a way
Into our real lives.

There is no way to reach love
Rather than love itself.

Obvious things are not stamped,
They are hidden beneath the carpets,
They are shout in between words
(But never represented by them),
Seemingly obvious things are misleading.

Let the cannons come:
My flowers are awaiting.

There is no point in waiting,
In expecting the savior,
In hoping for the best,
In claiming and claiming.

The profane History got so nostalgic
With the programmed amnesia
Regardless of goodness or badness
Of the times ever lived.

All we've been left
Is a shallow interest
To match anything
Of what we already are.

There is no place else to go
Rather than where we already are.
The only option, then, is to fight.

Technical books
Never made
Good people.

Only
Feelings
Do.

I wanted, truly, to believe
That this fire in the words and the eyes
Won't get our hands *****
Of clay, cement,
Of walls to face to,
That this same fire
Won't consume all the air we breathe,
Won't reduce to dust
All the ornament and all the content
That bonds us,
And all the remains
Are looks to the floor,
The first degree burns,
The second degree burns,
And those, more serious, but not painful,
Third degree burns.

I cannot believe
That this is a phony, fictitious,
Neither a harmless fire.
The awake of any sleeping volcano
Is more serious than those known, measured.

It is not the blow of the words
That make fire;
It is made in the stomach,
With all the acids ingested,
With poisoned food,
In the masochism of cultivating
Unnecessary pain,
In the sadism of wanting to see this pain
In any other eyes,
In the self denial as also a poison producer.

We are alone, naked, hands *****,
In cubicles, over a soft soil of the ashes,
Protected from everything,
Except ourselves.