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Ahead of the paper we see the white
The same that our soul prospers The White of the feelings that is chimera The challenge is to ahead write the first line of a verse Of the paper, for hours is immersed Without nothing to say, nothing to make, only looking at and saying: To be or not to be. Where you were, inspiration? Where you are, illusion? You died in the together lake with Ophelia, Or banished, wounded and hurt with the darts of my disenchantment? How to say is truth when everything in us is only questions? How to say deep and full verses of enchantments When no word takes brightness when overlapping a blank page? How to say that yes, if everything in us says them that not? To be or not to be, thatĀ“s the question! Let us drown in our sleep, therefore they say, with it, we finish the regret it heart and innumerable the natural conflicts that constitute the inheritance of the meat! And ahead of the conflict, that end could more devotedly be desired? To die... To sleep... Perhaps to dream! To desire that the next day is next, that everything in return is different tomorrow. To erase the marks of yesterday, to discard forever what it will negative inflict in ours mind. Repelling us thus of all the anguish. Who knows rescuing Ophelia and bringing with it in return all our inspiration. To be ahead of a paper, that represents nothing less than its proper life: To be a Hamlet of itself exactly To be ahead of words that describe all our happiness This teatral being that acts to the times as animal, who will be? The bitterness? Where it is? For where it was? With who it disappeared? It is taken refuge exactly in itself. To die... To sleep... Perhaps to dream. And is thus that the conscience transforms it into coward, Is thus that the verdor primitive of its resolutions if debilitates in the pale shade of the thought And is thus that taken over on a contract basis from the importance, with similar reflections, they deviate its course and they leave to have the action name. Being now the silence and only illusion!
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