ItÕs the nostalgia of finding yourself walking in Milan while your own steps draw your emotions on the road wet.

In the mountain of solitude, a gray cloud communicates me that are in someoneÕs hand.
And he leads me by the hand where existences tear.
Each verse of my poems are next to each other untouched.
untouched. And the world is lost.
With the falling drops I do not mark the time, I am just away from life.
And I amalgamated in the dramatic sound of emotions.
It rains on the void and the cry becomes matter, it breaks the silence.
Voices sway.