the drop of dew didn’t learn
to be the mornings pearl
neither in bloom the quince trees
to shelter the springtime’s refugees

same as nobody taught
the child to laugh
the old age’s grace
nor its cloudless face

the inner harmony could become a breeze
more contagious than a disease
the love is as it happens
more powerful than any weapons

let’s keep our bodies dancing on rope
and our souls open for hope
to be enough rich tomorrow
for retrieve our halo

if we could accept ourselves
after the strange yesterdays
we should pass through one of the twelve
fortress’s gateways