I was a tulip in the fog
In the way of the armies,
Planted exactly in the place
Of passing of the crowd.
I was a satellite of fifth category,
That was not able to be adjusted
To the orbit that it belonged,
I was not more than a Nemesis
Wandering, missed, itinerant
That was with their withered smile
With their delirious eyes
Looking for the caresses
That didn't exist
In the places
Where my soul was.
I was a shy lily
In the valley
Of life
Whose petals would never open up
A withered willow
In the pond,
That would never flourish,
Fearful rose of the winds
With which nobody would be guided.
Useless, sterile and infertile
They are the keywords
Of my biography.
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