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There are times when I get confused,
whether what is written is what is lived or what is wanted,
in the mind, a deep chaos,
between what is felt and what is pretended.
Sometimes the soul is empty,
searching in the shadows for the truth,
without emotion, without melody,
lost in its own storm.
Loneliness becomes company,
overwhelms with its cruel thoughts,
dilutes my voice, my poetry,
in the silence of the laurels.
But in the twilight of the dark night,
flashes of inspiration arise,
ideas that break through the thicket,
guided by the muse in communion.
Do I write what I feel in my being,
or what I fervently desire?
Is it perhaps someone else who makes me believe,
that I am only the echo of his current?