Reluctant lifestyle and gray days
at hopeless bottom of the last hour,
scatters the fog of the memory:
the people are shattered, no history.
Future of flatteries is not adorned,
the death ingloriously leaves you,
the time evolved as cloistered
nun: but it has no any victory of spirit
onto the flesh. Nothing waits for
my future, it hinders my dying
thinking at bottom of dread.
Imagining it which previously there was not;
I dream myself too: lost on the path,
the leading way towards unsure goals.