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Where are all the sunsets the Spring had promised me?
Boticelli used them to paint his Venus coming out of the sea like a pearl sorrouded by envious gazes. Since then they are gone.
I enjoyed them in a different life, when we played fearless with the fire of knowledge.
Back then we were mortals whose only sacrifices conisisted in letting the time pass by withouth being scared by the scars it printed in our skins.
We were not aware of the price to pay to become gods, untouched by the lightening, by the fear, by the uncomfortable despair of a good bye.
We did not sucumbed to the words of prayers who believed in an better life. We maintained our thoughts straight, even when everything around us looked prompt to fall under our feet.
We waited till the last moment, like those notes floating on the surface of the Titanic did before the last hope sunk with them in the long way down to eternity.
We waited till "The End" was too obvious, and the lights awoken us from the dream.
Sleepy we started to walk appart.
Perhaps it was meant to be this way.
Perhaps I won't find any more reasons to build up a better me.
I want to have faith in te words of my heroes and listen to them talking to me from their graves once more.
How many more times is this going to happen?
I don't dare to wish.
But I am sure I will.