The night when you walk alone
through your wooden horse can last forever.
Or a century of a premonitory farness
from all the chairs which will enter in your way.
Silence.
You are the object that have nothing to do,
everybody left you,
newspapers, handbooks, fairytales,
only the board's fibres remains, right there where you put it
in the morning,
sticked on the walls of your wooden horse,
to help you to find a way in this labirint,
in which you catch the sight of the green fields,
butterflies imprisoned in colorful silk dresses,
and all the people who let you alone,
dancing.

The night when you walk alone
through the exterior limits of the God, can last forever.
The same time who it takes you to mix
billion of souls with ten thousand stolen secunds,
into the same vanilla taste sirup,
so you can't say that you didn't find something to do.
Some of the gods that you can't recognize anymore,
they didn't leave you,
they felt your presence
and started to invoke the few things
which they consider to be important,
a party in your behalf, a lot of honey and many ambrosia.
Silence.
You get tired to speak outloud
with yourself,
although the mime looks now
as the right choice from all the possibilities,
as long as your voice also
dances on the field
together with all the people who let you alone.

The night when you have decided to reinvent the sun, should last forever.