Don't play the guitar
in the silence of the night for
a wretched love.

He does not scratch with his whining
beating the soul of the one
who listens by a logical disappointment.


Each chord drowns a beat
of a dead heart,
of eternal loneliness,
of vital emptiness,
of disappointment.

Each note emulates the destruction of
faith in a pious future.


Whining is the mystery of a soul
that ceased to be to turn into the wind.