Hear the voices of the past, and of the men who faded into time and their footsteps that moved the ground until it was forgotten.
Hopes ablazed in fires of summer, fallen in thousand leaves of gold, embracing the ground of its pieces, to sleep until the rivers flow again.
Let good people take a part of your thoughts, but whoever isn't, must not be allowed to enter and should be left to blossom outside – in the garden of fools.
Burn me in the clouds of fire to carry the ashes into the heavens that make the stars at night by the warm evening sky.
Summer – fiery as your flair, entrenched in the hats you wear; perilous thrills are your friends, in solitude, your fervor ascends.