It's always the same poem I'm writing
It's never ending
It's only an attempt to take death a bit from us. 

Your Presence

There's a real difference between moss and mold:
Your presence a gift and future thrift,
Your presence in every object that I have and seek,
Your presence that shuts down the world outside,
Your presence that reclaims all the love of the Universe,
Your presence in which I almost believed before you left,
Your presence in the hands and feet with my every step,
Your presence most of all in my head and chest,
Your presence stuck in the confused labyrinth of my mind,
Your presence born out of surprise and summer's blinding light,
Your presence that is simple the smile on my face,
Your presence in the movies I watch,
Your presence the present I asked.

No one knows what the horizon will bring;  
if heavy rain, clouds or hot sun. 
They say you can plan a picnic  
but you can't predict the weather; 
you can always take an umbrella. 
People also say: hope for the best and for the worse prepare. 
Well, as for me, I don't know
 haven't got a clue of what's left. 
I'm not even able to think about it 
'cause I'm too busy enjoying the colours of the horizon sunset. 

What do you do with all the love that you got? Does anyone know how it's quite a lot? Spread your wings and dream away among stories of forget-me-nots. You put your dreams and creativity in a box, tuck all the love in too, hoping someday someone will notice that in the end Love is all that humans got.

They despise you, they ignore you, they wouldn't care if you ceased to exist. They don't look at you, because you are their consuming beast. Your name is Master of Time and they keep running against you, but you always catch them and show them who they truly are: just grains of sand to be engulfed by the ultimate tar. 

Does Summer love withstand the cold of Winter? Does Autumn romance survive the rain in Winter? Does the Winter body warmth surpass the temptations of Spring? I don't know, I've fallen in love with every season.

She had death in her eyes, as she was staring at death's face. 

Window of the soul, all say.

If I fall, there won't be another; if I clench my fist, no one will bother.

I was in vertigo three days in a row and I perished, it managed to finally decide to take me. 

The shadows were no more, the struggle was over. 

No tears were shed, she, death and I, were glad.

By the sounds of Juniper Arms

I am five thousand years old and maybe that's why they think I can't die.
They throw rocks at me, break my branches, even when I'm just twigs I still hang on.
I appear in more than one shape, I am short and robust, or tall and determined, or even spread wide.
I am of Christmas or of the desert, I am from the garden or the field.
They bend me and break me but I'm still here. Still.
Maybe I just want to fall asleep forever.
Maybe in those arms where once I thought it was home.



"Trees do not live forever. They do age and eventually die. Some live much longer than others though, and it turns out that some of the longest living trees survive best in the more extreme climates and situations." 

The best songs always stay, also because they have more than the story told in the lyrics, they have a story of a part of our lives too.

Glad only to meet people without borders in their hearts, open up to the world and willing to make others their priority, because the only thing you take out of this world isn't you, it's the love and help that you give to others. As long as there are good people one can remain to fight for the goodness and love in this world.