When the fall arrives,
began to run the curtains of his life,
and guitar in hand,
he released chords to the infinite of the senses,
He shook his mane,
and next to it the dust the old empty ideas,
ignoring how many heavens,
I had lost while I was not awake.
It was time to grow up,
to avoid theories that everything was written,
and pencil in hand,
he started drawing lots of scribbles,
with the ink of his blood,
with the inspiration dictated by his heart,
could start the script,
where the end could have endless infinities.
It was time for changes,
of revolutions that make their history,
of cross stories,
of crusades against their own archaic limits,
of forged boundaries,
on the roof of the galleon of his doubts,
and little by little,
they returned the smile spontaneously.
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