The infinite front of him

Under the slowness of the feather the languor of your melancholy is written. In the perjury of your evils which last. Tremble the sad truth. Of these exaggerated oppositions. You, the clumsy puppet. Hung at the end of its wire. Equilibrist of feelings. To cry to be made forgive. To lie to restore. Fruit of a futile destiny. Of a life of wandering, four ways. Without knowing which to take. There remaining to wait. That the sky of a sad morning rises. Moving away pallid mood its nights of nightmares.  Playing hoop with the torments and the regrets. The feverish and mocking glance. Giving such an amount of place randomly. On the out of date air. Of a forgotten melody. The different ones which lasts. The piano which murmurs. Sickly sweet notes, dreadful vision. Of your grimaces. All these jokes which aggravate. Disguised repeated gestures of your animosity. Bleed on the stone the trace of a signature. This nostalgia of your slow anguish. A fault in your armor. The escape in front of a child. Closed eyes, stopped ears. Drinking the prohibited wine of its desires. Capricious. Proud. Passes on meadows and the forests. Shade of its shades. Complaints in the half-light. The rumor of wounded animals. To be offended. Believing in its piety. With its too beautiful words. Made up to make forget. Its ugliness, its blackness. Run the infamy in the torpor of its perjuries. Pains which one endures. Castrating the future. Misused, betrayed, confused by the insupportable truth. To be rooked. Humiliated. By, you it clumsy puppet. Hung at the end of its wire. Who dances, balances himself. Making fun of its melancholy. Because it has the infinite one in front of him.