HIRAETH

A duty it's a seed to water everyday.  
A doubt it's a corpse floating against the water course.
A dream it's just a hope created to cope with hankering.
The symptoms of the culture have drowned in painting cults.
In the heyday ,
people harvested misfortune by season.
At dawn they dance in between coffee grains and cotton fields,
when the acre ribm in value.
 
The streets of villa melancholy were flooded,
when listening to the sound of the rain.
Some dreams died in the harvest,
some buried motivation in the graveyard of oblivion.
From the sound of the rain they run and take shelter at home.
 
If a feeling,
It's a storm that sometimes comes to visit home…
the lands that saw me run and the crops that filled my plate…
the sacred land that nursed me in pride.….
no longer exists in this world but in gardens of oblivion.