Who would suspect that words have finally surrendered to the poet,
and the sense of metáfota decided to admit defeat.
deceive the reality that we prefer to cushion our eternal return, our deformable
tragedy, the tragedy of solitude, we always
flee to hold our misfortune,
"But is not also an alienation Art complacent?
Is not that, your helpless target, its ill-fated dream?
Only one bomb ....
