Here is strength and solitude everything happens in a day. The freshness of innocence is taken in but wisdom takes all the freshness. The poet does not want to say anything else but thinking takes him to the word: in any breath, he would wish to love the poem, with the certainty of centuries, rest calmly and when I am overcome with sleep, start to dance with the night, crush a thousand stars, paint them red and turn them into fire… The next day… it does not matter to me if the light is full, if the wind will have burnt the golden leaves or it will take on the arrogance of the lion. We should know that there are some shapeless beings that play bombs and wars suggesting a deafening noise, intending, half hidden, that the machines sing sweet melodies to the sun while the game continues. I want them to end up tired, dragging their tails along the ground and the grass, totally unaware, does not even want to grow again due to laziness and pain. Despite everything, the poet wants to affirm as idols the fragrance of the skin in the seaman’s embrace and the tears of innocence; although this is … just a poem.