Death and dark times are always into creating something.  
Constant guests for the valuable greed of the worst sickness humankind has ever seen. But I still think the worst sickness is the deadly pestilence of an involuntary consciousness. This is the end of a time that has never seen the opulence of a great impenetrable light. 

After all, this infatuated syndrome of aggressive behavior was never intended to exist, though I could be exceedingly relentless, fustigated by days of overwhelming sadness. Relentless I will be. Ready to die by an increasingly desolate starvation for life. 
 
Sometimes I really feel the immaculate overwhelming sadness that I seek; all 
that I have left is an exhaustion that keeps the sky under my head unannounced and cold. No energy and an infinite tiredness contemplate the starlight skies with an infamous prosperity that never ends. No energy will ever be allowed to compromise the principles of my salutary comfort. 

Only a perpetual restless feeling that never ends anticipates the calmness of the truth. When the major elements of an incontestable truth are predestined to seek the glory of its own splendor, all humankind can persevere through the embrace of its own deleterious war of destructive hostility. This restless mind that speaks over these ludicrous extemporal engravings of valuable principles overcomes the night that runs endlessly inside our souls.  
 
One day darkness will come to close the night. The night barely overcomes
What exists inside the realms of this life. What conclusion could I possibly get, except that I'll never really be the light that hides inside of me? 
 
These times overcomes a falling truth that renounces a sorrow desperate to portray the pain in human eyes. As the night overcomes the sorrow, a true night will always portray the darkness of my old days. The night will always be inextricably attached to my old days, destined to abandon my fallen undisputed disposition behind me for good. 

All these noises bring back the anger of ancient agonies. All these old days are perpetually trapped in frustrations that will never be as old as the universe upon which I am inserted. The fact that I want to explain that night and day is dying, and a mordacious sickness seems to prevail over a malicious overthrow. 

Nothing lasts for too long. All the stars that are bright seem clear in the purely translucent stream of your eyes. No world can understand alone the sickness that feels overwhelmed by a sense of passionate declaration. 



​
Nights falling off the sky, what will become of this feeling no longer trapped inside a dream? I came directly to the point of never denying any existence:
I’m positively sure that God knows it all.  
 
Youth and wisdom never walks together. The lucid streams of time bring back a horizon that no longer seeks friends. They are not related, though everybody's amendments do not dare to judge the principles of a time lost in a fearful judgment of increasingly monotonous delusions.    

For once and for all, I dare to challenge unclear thoughts. 
The sky is clear, a system defied by a nefarious institution for which I have never expressed any confidence before. But I don’t reclaim the uncertainty of an imminent closure, for once and for all. 

Planets are everywhere, inside your thoughts, my life, my firm exposure of principles, my desire to reclaim freedom. Inside infinite dreams, inside stories of fundamental mental decay, the declaration of fools persist, nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be found. And all I have to say is that dark days are infrequent, always ahead of me, true to their mortal legacy, they stay.

Tiredness and bright sunny days are all over me, never fearful or resentful of any unspoken truths under a blind horizon. 

On these days of major alignment, it seems very difficult to stay happy for a great deal of circumstances. Slavery, intermittent cycles of benevolence, insistent noises of shadows, a vast amount of spurious indolence always relevant when I'm tired of everything.

They made loud noises behind the windows of my backyard grievances. They made loud noises behind the voices of my soul.

Even after several years, even after all these years, everything behind my voluntary sadness precedes the dark days of my monotonous anger. 

These days feels quite the same. Even after these days of unexpected weaknesses the indisposition gets higher and higher; in the empty vicinities of a life where all days are over, finished by a malevolent precarious and imponderable constituency where all evil is punishable by men with a children-like spirit. 
 
When will come to me the end of this morbid life? An unparalleled sickness gets louder than a vicious melancholy. All this loud noises, what they really mean? The slow victory upon which my ambivalence strikes your modest behavior will never feel the omnipotence of my lucid heart. 
 
This hazardous existence makes me awkwardly insane. Nobody can strike my alternative options, as to why I don’t particularly enjoy the meticulously bestial arrangements of life inside the end of my dream. 

And I dream. No dream inside these dreams of mine makes me want to kill these insane messengers of hostility. So all that I can declare, all that I can really say is that life is like a poison. Life is always deadly. And, as a result, only a few people can understand me. 

The pain in life will always serve as a prelude to chaos? Life is a killing category of endless cruelty. Who would not comprehend something so atrociously tragic? A painful abyss of never-ending disasters is a timeless breath that perhaps will be over in a distant future. 

This life of slavery will take everybody down. 
The sky will never be large enough to subsidize or to contain all my venomous fears. The night sky will be filled with deep grief and unhappiness, the assimilation of an unexpected mental misery taking us down. 

The sickness overwhelmed by the bright stars highlights clearly the interference of its own light. And what becomes of this feeling? Life can be so cruel, but that’s just the way things naturally flow. A life impersonated by despair came to know agony. And as far as I know, this majestic element became an acquaintance of me. 

Life became a really long darkness. Life is falling and I am falling. It can be quite hard for me to process this everlasting pain, this everlasting agony that undergoes through the vastness of my heart. Will a new world ever be possible in the everlasting conjuncture of my heart?  
 

Wagner

These were relatively cold and gloomy days. 
Gray and rainy, sad days, and I settled in the atmosphere full of my worries. I do not feel comfortable talking about what I was doing or what I was expecting. Because every day was precisely the same. Always the same. I went down the empty streets of my life to buy some things, in a matter of a few minutes I came back. Everything was monotonous and still the same. I do not feel comfortable writing about what I was doing, or what I was expecting, but for now it's enough for you to know what I am. The days here are always rainy, the sun never shines, and I am always waiting for something. Something or someone that never comes. But I do not want them to think that my days are sad, because they are not. In fact, I did not even know what sadness was until recently. Curious to know what it was, I bought it for free. And they delivered to me at home in a matter of days. 

I was relatively disappointed, it was something small, I thought it was much bigger. So, the disgrace was inserted in a gentle letter, sent from a distant planet. Suddenly, I’ve noticed they had pointed out the eternal skies that were the real ambivalence of my heart. They gave me the wrong life to live? Suddenly, I was a miniature of myself. Suddenly, reality wasn’t capable of making any sense. That's all of a sudden. I do not own the ones who know everything that I love. Another interesting thing about the intricate universe that I am marvelously compelled to describe is the brave solicitude that seeks in my soul the despondency for a voluntary personification of reason. 

I left the omniscient sickness of my personal dark days at the bottom of my reflex. Since the shadows of my voluntary analysis had no practical functionality or purpose, I left all those useless days behind my sentimental stream of memory. Nevertheless, I can positively say that my days were not sad, I did not even knew sadness until I saw the shadows of my imponderable thoughts. Outside, the rain never stopped, and the sky was always dark. In the night a dense fog took refuge in the most intense chasms of dawn, and I woke up apprehensively, wanting to check upon everybody, until I remembered that I lived only with the sinister ambivalence of strikingly forgotten shadows. Then I would get up to take a breath, and watch the dense and gray perpetual mist that every morning returned to the window, involving my world in a timeless black labyrinth that whispered the eternal night into my life. I stood there, paralyzed by the free hostilities of the night, alone, but relying in the strength of my principles, albeit feeling vulnerable and frail, reiterating the nocturnal sickness of my private world, thinking and reflecting, but never with a plausible capacity for concentration, or focus, or rational objectivity. 

I felt like an afflictive nighttime specter, a man lost in the dark expansion of his own night. But this always happened, it was common, after having those sinister impressions on the mists of night. So I went back to sleep, and when I woke up all things were exactly as before. Everything was monotonous, tragic and abysmal, and when I woke up, it was just me alone, as always. The days went on endlessly, filled with lethargy, and the monotonous quietness of the weeks guarded the effervescence of my latent anxieties and impulsive disturbances. 

Well, I have to conform, I think. If this is how life works for me, if this is the functionality that governs my life, if the gears of my existence stand in this way, who am I to disagree? I justified myself this way. And so the days passed by, in the forgotten emptiness of a cold day monotony. These days were all and the same. Always greyish and anxious, followed by virulent and distressing nights, always accompanied by a dense and deleterious fog that seems predisposed to capture me every night, but mysteriously, never takes me.


​Wagner

Today the earth is black, doesn’t matter what you feel, I can see. 
And tomorrow will always agree with the solitude of my soul. 
No righteous or virtuous children would ever be capable of understanding my evident selection of preferences, not even my conscience, so to speak. Nor a good-hearted splendor will seek the sun brightly infusing life over this inexistent earth. 

Maybe the shadows of resistance will no longer remember what I see. Darkness will remain visible seeking through the darkest horizons of my eyes. The pervasive unhappiness of my terrestrial eyes would trigger thoughts of foolishness and desire able to prevent rage and malice in the sentimental devices that I contemplate before my personal world of anxiety, affliction and uneasiness. 

Can good songs heal the soul and distract the heart? If the convoluted shadows of disappointment strongly affirm that the invariable sickness that protests over the revengeful stagnation of my audacious disappointment will provide the attestation of a nefarious infestation of inexistent realms, then these peaceful days will inevitably be over. My restless years will start to disappear. So I think, perhaps, that this would be the inextricable result. 

But it’s not correct to complain. The mordacious confluence of my sincerity can drain thoughts of serenity, as well as external pacts of melancholic ambivalence. 

The antagonistic healing of a suffering that never leaves. These answers will no longer understand the content of my soul. At least for a considerable amount of time. Relegated to a mortifying silence, no one would dare to declare the dead of the night to be my hostile impatience.  
 
Tomorrow will be the day that the whole world will stay black. 
Tomorrow will be an especially indefinite day. We can never rest at the dissemination of an evil horde of incongruous maleficence. Now we are drawn to a time where it is impossible to set back. I understand tomorrow will be as fragile as a cloud in the sky. Tomorrow I will seek the eternity at a hole in the sky.  
 

Wagner 

A prose poem by Wagner Hertzog

Astute levels of intriguing thoughts. What these cities of dust and glory and happiness will do to please me? The strength of this life is so destructive and agonizing. And yet, these cities made from the pure concrete of the heart of its passionate surroundings; I can contemplate completely alone its revenues and mountains of everlasting dreams, full of richness, children and impoverished debauchery! What would be the real meaning of my treachery?   

The strength of this life never meant to be an aggressive one. This ungifted life, I think, always wanted for a higher and intelligent explanation. The permanent exhaustion, the greatest infatuation of these invisible cities lost in the hearts of stone of men: a contradictory convoluted deception, painstaking and useless. I am the falcon, the plane and the eagle that will always be surrounded by the mystery of a dignifying shadow. Sometimes I can see. Sometimes these crying skies are so deeply elusive, that I can perfectly understand the moral tenderness upon which they become valuable.      

In a world of dense opinions, the prospect of understanding is irregularly distributed. No one beyond the measures of pain can relate to this dense, surreal red tinted sky of original thoughts and pervasiveness. As the world drowns in a sea of spiraling sickness, I can only recall the fact that I'm not there. Maybe, I will never be there. 

Sometimes I see the pain. Sometimes this sordid existence was never meant to be. 
Too much descriptive hallucinations. A planetary loneliness that will never comprehend sickness as a realistic memorandum of existence.

Back to the sky of relief, the divinity lost in the surreal city of a restless nothingness. And there is nothing I can do about it. It's too much hate. But nobody seems to care about these fallacies. Neither do I. But I will never proclaim how hard it is to be me in this delusional world of demented incapacitations.

The poetic hardline of uncovering projects of doomed exasperations. This circle of malevolent intentions inflicts loneliness over desperate souls. But human beings, doomed by their inherently malignant nature, will fall over the vicinities of their own evil.    

What can I do when all these days of afflictive turmoil begin? There is no denial when the subject is the captivating accuracy of stubbornness. For me to be as ponderable as the sky, serenity has to be something impossible to get. 

I do not feel hostility. It is almost impossible to believe in the midnight flights of our dreams, when they represent too much infuriated intricacy. The varied nature of these prospects, when we shall learn from them, without giving up? Even against the enemies of these invisible cities, my soul sees the crystalizing desire of events yet to be concluded. 

A very painful life is administered in the ghostly revenues of a happiness that is no longer consistent. Since I have no desire at all to be submitted to my own legitimate, but precarious inhumane abilities, those dreadful moments of divinity will never comprehend the absurdity of reality, for the goal of interior peace. 

A very original sense of audacity built wind cities inside my heart. A very disciplined gratification that seeks life as a formidable gift of comfort and consideration. Gives to my mind the reconciliation of an empty city that is perpetually lost in a sea of impeccable trust. 

If the planetary serenity that seeks the convergence of its own redemption really finds the path towards the illusive senses of its mundane sensibilities, maybe this vast and selected ocean of human beings that wander all around this fortunate line of events can finally sense the remorse of their own emptiness and truculence. Without the barbarous attestation of worthlessness that they exhaustively search for so vehemently.     

After days of insanity, how can I say that everything will be over? The human soul may be stagnant, but the anxious desire for relief gets stronger. The unforgiving grace of our existence will never depend on the probabilities. Our entire life seems so unbearable; life seems to be vacant in an endless road of pain and restlessness.  

Apprehension is what primarily makes me discover daily the wonderful vicissitudes of life, in an almost agonizing emotional journey. But to describe the colors passing by the window of life – at least partially – will make me get rid of hostile and stupid people. 
 
It can be extremely difficult having to endure the spiritually hateful idiosyncrasies that the whole world wants to suppress. Yet this light, despised by virtually everybody, relies on the strength of something that never was, never is, and never will be.   


Wagner

A prose poem by Wagner Hertzog

Those years were a sea of marvelous cold, but how could I known life would be such an everlasting treachery? Those years were practically as diverse as the sky of tormented and engulfed sentiments, although life for sure is downplayed for a lot of reasons. But maybe the beauty of these challenges relates to the fact that this interior war will simply never go unnoticed. And my time will never fade away.  
 
Winter days seems so wonderfully preordained when you have no sadness in your soul. Permanent sadness is the relief for these gray days of apathy, though the thoughts prompted by this soft existence always remind me that life has a meaning. 

No life is spared in these volcano cities of beautiful lies. No life was left beyond these unmerciful enigmas of charming omnipotence gracefully healed by smiles under the sun. 

We all know we have to live separately, but the absurdity of the crimes we haven’t committed seems to be over every day; when the additional selfless cry of a building unfolding over the centuries  of mourning relentlessly establish a level of satisfaction we haven’t seen, the deleterious grace of existence becomes abnormal. 
 
Tired and gone and left for good, we pass by the ghostly cathedral of a madness we cannot figure it out. All that we can find here are endless benevolence restrained over a sadness no one will ever believe. But the great news about it mainly maintains for a while the ephemeral sensation that those angry days are gone for good now. No good reason, but all that I have left was a Mediterranean skull over a clock. 

The stream of people mercilessly crying an agonizing comprehension totally worthless of the destruction of their minds would make me a rude person. Cruelty sold for mostly fake abusive answers are no longer what I expect. I have been watching something real, I have been expecting some empty streets in the dark waves of my emotional cities. To my instinct of self-preservation, razor blades and brilliant skylights and empty houses no longer fall from my inveterate insanity centers. 

Streets in the moon in my eyes are seeking for relief and I breathe while seeing and mourning daily because I appreciate the spectacle of human life. All the things I know, only if I could see life as a beautiful accomplishment. I'm always astonished to see the unbearable things I want to see. 

Standardized to nothing, a huge and great ocean of hostility. Sometimes my surreal void of meaningful despair and disturbances gets down. Tonight this empty space will hardly seek any form of vengeance. No, I’m not into this form of life to see a wonderful and exclusive ordeal of stupidity. 

Writing the day away, life sometimes will be forbidden to coexist with evolutionary patterns. Sometimes I wonder, when I write the day away, about the worst and most relentless sickness. This is the end of a very difficult and exponentially exhaustive personal darkness falling over a hard truth, night and day. 

Dark days are infrequent, but for all the stars that manage to get above the sea of youth and wisdom, slavery, prejudice and noises of shadows, even after several years, will be over when all the loud and disdainful parameters of equality – a truthful prelude to chaos – fade away definitively. 

If I can go to faraway places, I wonder what certainties will be healed for the easiest path. This constant state of impatience searches so prematurely for dark days; nobody knows what this battle of empty shadows will do to the essence of our souls, but I can always wonder. In the end, especially in the winter days, life will always be downplayed. And all of you, merciful people, will carry on the streets of misery the unforgettable scream of men that shall never live. 

Today the earth is black. Thoughts of miraculous falls makes tomorrow so much better (and less malevolent). The longer nights will never be that easy. But, in the end, I know, I will always have the mysteriously deep black rain falling over me.  

 
 
Wagner

A prose poem by Wagner Hertzog

Filled the captivating tone of your voice, the depressed glory of empty years will waste away like the unforeseeable days of deceptive agony that provokes smiles in the precious injury of your personal sky of omnipotent benevolence.
  
With a depressed sense of unforgivable guilt, all spiritual significance will pass by your eyes in gray days of static perceptions of predictability. Those days are beyond any predisposed form of sadistic hostility. Days in darkness do not glorify the sickness of an absolute exasperation determined to portray the victories for years to come. I know I will not be spared from the darkness to come. Should I?  

Now I remember: 
So many sick days, so many days are excruciatingly disdainful, and yet, the horror of choice seems to be immaculate. Days do not live like this unless they are 
prematurely dead. But I can’t speak for myself, unless I feel deeply moved by the sincere words of a universe yet to be designed. 
 
But this constant state of things does not spare me from the times to come: always apprehensive, always undermined, sometimes it seems like I'm always downwards,
I'm constantly being trapped in this obscurely dark and static pattern of doomed saturation.
 
This constant abysses lying in complete darkness recedes the state of desperation relegated to the world, always stuck at the drowsiness of an everlasting desolation. 

What can I do when shattering oppressive darkness overcomes the opportunities of sincerity? This old moon never seems to get me back. Life is always driven in the edge of the blade. Life is always dangerous, always deadly, always black, always dying within and around you.  
 
To be free from all these incessant days, and its infinite grains of benevolence. To rest eternally in a perpetual circle of sleep is what I can do gradually, as I learn to assimilate the maleficence of my long sleep hours under a tree of dreams. In these moments of intervening, life always seems so destructive. Why I can’t rest properly in this world of mine, created entirely by myself? 

I should be sincere: tonight I feel very old. Tonight I feel the years that passed me by. Tonight I feel very old. Tonight I feel all the weight of the years on my shoulders. All these years have been set upon my face and all this darkness all around the world remembers the eternal day of devastation that will drown below my window, below the dangerous darkness of my window, full of it's shadows and criminals and the city landscape that pulverizes my mind and the emptiness of a mortifying agony pointing fingers at me virtually accusing the years of passing by; articulated cosmogonies doesn't go away. I'm alone and all these years are so filled with anguish. The years keep passing by.

The years keep passing by as I get old. And I'm getting old. So very old as they told
of these eternal winters that cleanses the soul. And the years keep passing by. The years keep passing by. But time never goes away. In their cruel assertion of affliction, the years are relentless. The years are black and grey. Those years were a real pleasure in life. 

I'm not taking the chances to be a warrior. The world is a very secret place. Nobody knows the true treasures of your eyes but me. This mainly occurs because life is suffering. Life is the night in a never-ending rain. Life is the truth, but only God
can give.
 

Wagner

A prose poem by Wagner Hertzog

There is a higher meaning about the world that surrounds my thoughts. Instantly shaken by the invisible turmoil of uncertain dark and glorious days, the lancinating spirit of my shadows now suppress the disdain of a lonely solidarity with vain certainty. Today the universe seems to rule preordained emotions without any consideration.  



​
These days of unbearable exhaustion, no things were left without some sort of prejudice.   
But all the long nights and thoughts of exterior quietness feel like a reversed mode of paradise. Paradoxically, there are so many things out of sight, I feel no right to express in external places the ambiguous reality of my soul choice.  
 
In the epicenter of my thoughts, I want to go to faraway places. I need to go where the sun never sleeps. I want to go where a perpetual radio station lives. I want to be alone in an everlasting place where the sun never seeks the end of interior displaced delusions. 

I clearly think life it’s not just what appears for us to be:
Life always seems so devastating! Life always seems so powerful and distressing and destructive. Resting over the moon, in the shadows of a serenity field, where everyone that addresses the code of comfort appears to be quiet and realized. Life is the painstaking and useless opinions of others, but what do I know about life’s contradictory tears, or life's wasted years? Probably, just what I have been watching closely. 

I certainly see some days longer. Some days seems endless. This everlasting circle of life seems so disturbing for so many times. This circle of life seems so full of senseless disturbing visions of unseen things. Everybody keeps looking at me, but I don't want anybody close to me. 
 
Unfortunately, it seems that I will always have those endless days of corrosive black rain. Reminding me of things long past. Reminding me of days that will not come back. Reminding me of days of disturbing melancholic passages of darkness and sickness, of the darkest sadness of the paralyzing agony of the living emptiness. Days so dark and so obscure and so furious that they were always filled with a deeply oppressive agony. And yet, happiness and optimism always prevailed, and the everlasting light of a glorious day always managed to shine incredibly strong.  


Wagner

Life is hostility. Indeed, what would be life without it?
Misdeeds of the guideline of a soul, never to be fully understood. 
Life is really a very difficult game. So, what would I be without this real and honest desire for freedom against a destructive tyranny?



​
I don’t know, sometimes I just feel, and I just go on this path of everlasting sorrow and dark grief. Sometimes the sadness beholds the sky, everything looks like yesterday at the corner of misguided street full of nothingness and shame. It’s a world full of despicable gloom on which I live. But how often I can speak of it? 
Life can be very meaningful. The everlasting  suffering and misery would find its road towards nothing. I think life could be pictured as a never-ending train. And the dying trends of my sorrowful soul travels around so dreadfully, so painstakingly dead, spreading sicknesses all around, that I all castles I’ve built in the air have stricken me with forgotten fears. In this tower of surreal nothingness, despair is almost a belief. 

How could I think of weaknesses all alone in this world? I am what I really am, after I stood for the things that I believe. And I would never be senseless. I can’t accept despair as a lonely shadow. I am done with hostility and grief, all that seems unnatural for the soul in an eternal solar day. I always say that nothing in the world seems worthy of something. This may be the replacement of a solitary thought, completely alone at the tired corner of an ordinary life. Nonetheless, nothing in this world seems beautiful; I think dark skies are mostly everything that has been left.  Nothing more was clean before my eyes. Only a striking and lucid emptiness. The horrible ordeal of a precarious distress. Alone at the sight that perpetuates the misery that corrodes my soul. Nothing more than the mirrors of my soul. 

Usually, I am so tired of everything. How could I be stranded of such a mediocre vastness consecrated to explain myself? I don’t know, I really don’t know. Humanity is desperate for redemption, they just don’t know this for a fact. Life sometimes is a very great lake of underlying misery. Life is death, sorrow, an everlasting sadness and a certainty of miserable intolerance. I learned, somehow, that every day Is the same day.
Every day is a darkness that never fades away.

Every day is green, every day is black. Every day I remember a joy and a happiness
that are never coming back. Why every day is dark, why every day is grey? Every day is always a day to forget the entire ordeals of existence and its endless horrible miseries
that persist to strike us every day. 

Within, inside and without. Would this world become the soul for something so consistent, that always seeks to dry the pungent rivers of my heart? In the eternal misery that resides permanently in the hearts of men, all that I can see is an empty space in a house of one thousand rooms.  

In the house, this empty space is a graveyard. But the perpetual darkness outside seems so vague, abstract, elusive and sublime. Why those gray days have been so depressed? Happiness distress this empty misery in a life that never sees happiness begins. It’s hard to look upon these shadows of nocturnal horror and despair. Hard is the way this desperate days sounds, nothing more but darkness falling all over myself. 
 
Today is the day for the darkness to come, today is the day to get everything that was left behind the trees of disfiguration. Those radical beings seem full of transformed hate, never passive, always destructive. Today is the day to taste for a fact the sense of an easier life, opened in perpetual doorstep of these night skies. 
 
You know, this life talks to me. This life no longer exists. This life begins in a benign principle of attentive execution, that is miles apart from the essence of the soul. From the ones that are always free, the night will always act as a string of melancholy and deleterious dichotomy. 

Night is not an illusion as strong as life. Life is not a cancer that grows from without.  Life is a worried state of concern that grows from within. So, apart from this conclusion, the soul lines that always dilute in the rain will stand over a perpetual universe of silence. As diverse as the multitude of thoughts that rule our inexistent world devoid of prudence.  
 
Sometimes I feel the distances consumed by paths of monotony. The hard lines that concludes the driving distinction of anger will never be out. The soul dissolves the grain of its disturbed consistency, but is doomed to perish while consumed by cruelty. 
Sometimes I feel always worried, but never sentenced by hope. 

So, life is a sin? Life is a burden? Life is unhappiness? Life is defeat. Life is danger, compassion, acquisition, sadness, darkness, illness, anguish and selfishness. Life is inhumane, but there will always be a castle of happiness waiting by the sideline at the river of comfort. Sometimes I wonder in the darkness, sometimes I wonder in the train of unscrupulous eternal days, sometimes I wonder in vain, sometimes I wonder in a worried state. And undoubtedly, people seems to be invisible at the peak of human light.   

In the end, consumed by cruelty, what could I do? Without God, without hope, without sincere rain, without my space? 

No soldiers in the sun shall perish
Before evening outdoors
Time feels digesting emptiness
In your eyes, always reflected in mine

Those days shall fall
So suffering could be made of an endless endurance 
And all your vain goals will persist
Infatuated by nothing personal

A suffering child dies
No soldiers in the sun shall perish
Feeling what could be
A sickness caused by your interior wars

Lyrics: Wagner Hertzog