Where is my voice when I need to scream?
Where is the door that would lead me to the path with more tomorrows?
This forested cell is bringing irreversible damages to the bark and seeps its way to the roots.
If the feathers of a bird can support the burdain of such flights, winds, thunders and sand, why can't my afflicted bones deal with the simple necesities burrowed by those other spirits? The little humans that inhabit my own source of happiness.
Bring me back to my city of dangers, to my shadows under the valley that strerches a bridge with hanging streams.
Take my fingers and let them paint with someone else's tears. Mine are on drought. Where is survival of the hearted soul?
How do the mortlas stand such utopic sights?
Where are your crystal wings?
I see your halo, but not your sheets or your morning sweet smell.
Where is home?
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