There are few that make me ashamed
And I become speechless.
There are few too, when they come back
I proudly talk to them and never get tired.
The passed moonlit-nights come back like nymphs
And the dark nights like witches.
I set my ears to the ascetic air,
The farthest Future whispers I listen.
When the Future will dive into the Past ocean,
I wish the Past were only mine;
I wish to be what I am,
That which is detestable and dark is not me.
All the Past are not mine. Some passed-myself
Are sorrowful, painful and shameful
As if they were the convicts for death.

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