LOST PARADISE

When the sand is rustling its grain
through feet that dance a drink
a sea creates a face
full of memories to run away.

Clouds claim a dream:
"the spell of a feel"
in middle of crowned thoughts
making senses of songs.

Then is when individuality is born
to call the sleep of a day
that wake up to delete
the fiction of a saying

seeking the breaking
of a collective
to the encounter with the brave.

That's an undeniable truth
speaking with our dooms
in the lost paradise
that men scorn every time.