Mind they say is a cave,
the deeper you go,
the more is the longing for its mysteries.
To read other’s is an art,
but to reason one’s own a gift.
What he wants from me is unknown,
what I wish from him is forlorn.
Every soul wishes to be more,
but just when he gathers the will,
his dreams of the perfect life,
take him off his course.
After very many years,
of living the ironical perfect life,
a thought crosses the ever lost mind,
there was so much more he could be,
was it the society,
or was it me.