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It was when he saw himself on paper
it was when he found his faithful portrait (on a shelf)
time to shed his heavy skin
to wait for the ideal day
will be the same as always,
why waste
the weeks that will never come back

He decided to try a second life
he decided to fill a current agenda
with real names
his neat life was already dry
enough to stop going around
the same keychain, never again
fulfilling infamous procedures

It was when he left to never return
it was when he read that story (that kept him awake)
why endure dreaming of an ending
why wait for the ideal day
will be the same as always,
his honest life was already dry
enough to stop going around
the same keychain, never again
desiring empty condolences

Slow walk, candombe and wind
long road, bitter path