When he turned 15 he jumped into the abyss of life,
to the tangled labyrinth of half answers,
of tears for broken dreams without having dreamed,
of fragile loves disguised as eternal ones,
and exiled seraphim dedicated to organizing,
a hellish open-air rock concert.
Voracious of new experiences he built his trip,
with the plans of a roller coaster,
and the complicit silence of the deep night,
who is neither a counselor nor reliable
just a sample of characters,
looking for solitude under beer cans.
Soon there were no mirrors to reflect it,
no corners that did not know his shadow,
and destiny, fucking destiny, wanted,
that going back was harder than growing up,
that the skin does not wait for you to regret it,
and that the voice is lost in empty lanes.
When he turned 15, he let go of his unconditional
hands,
who maintained the balance of their steps,
on tender grass of the spring,
when the smiles dazzled the sun,
the eyes were filled with colors of butterflies
and walking was the greatest of adventures.
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