We are the bubble kids of the end of History,
an x in equations
dreaming with permanent contracts,
with dragonflies longing for
sweet kisses hiding
behind the shine of the bars
from that pub where I loved you,
island of resistance,
carving in ice cubes
promises and future.

And in the meantime, snatched bodies
over platforms preach,
there are those who tell us it's not the time
to speak about Utopia
or about revolution,
that it's an anachronism singing to the trova¹,
mentioning Guevara²
and in the meantime they hit your faith
and your future in their forge.

And lately the one who's writing,
aware of the privilege
of being born on this shore,
believes that this will still be the time
of the fearful angel that sighs,
a solitary atom spinning,
alien born on this Earth,
of the sublime dream, in summary,
of the man and woman that search for
another possible world.

And, in the meantime, the saints
of lost causes argue about truths,
armed with their ice axes they mistake the enemy.
Meanwhile, on the streets,
a murmur of wings flapping demands their voice,
a different voice.
Utopia rocking in the net,
it wonders and dissents.

And lately the one who's writing,
aware of the privilege
of being born on this shore,
believes that this will still be the time
of the fearful faerie that sighs,
firefly leaving lethargy,
Icarus escaping from an island,
of the sublime dream, in summary,
of the man and woman that search for
another possible world.