Poema inédito

Here, Thirst, wisely through  to our unconscious

feeling of surviving, the cunning of dreams,

passing hence, without notice

and in eyes of poor victims, whose everlasting words

deceives in winter blows of hopeless faith.

Peace for thee, unheard prays!

So, there's a story, of no name, but,

indeed, a number, whose face in veil hides under.

I know not he's sorrow in conscious, infant of dreams,

written papers of  local chronicles.

It was sowed a seed color, ideas forgotten

shall be remember, because there's no story ever writing

as this whose child riches teaches.

And no penitence should muses whisper, but

moral voices submissiveness.

What's thou predications?

What values thee subscript?

Whose view thee show?

In Faraway Cavers he was born, a place of heavenly mountains,

where hands just humans can afford.

One day, in world's galaxy, thy eyes woke.

Nor gold were reasons diamonds,

Not war's justification found under and cover

in lusting shame sheets of cold.

Where art thee, Truth?

Sun arises as his Sophia's will explodes.

Here's our motive, Kid's eyes in an adults

forgiven madness world.

So, not muse I, to be heard, wanted by,

but of freedom and spiritual minds at heart.

Listen closely to thou hearts: Freedom, Beauty,

Truth, and Love shall

be conquered by thy rights.

Oh, come, come,

my sweetest lullaby,

Let the child's voice to speak

for those who cannot savor a word.

Speak, oh Truth!

Servants of nothing, but of thy chains.

Cloying words that makes thee Slaves.

Vanora Miranda