"Tenacity and acumen are privileged spectators of this inhuman show
in which absurdity, hope and death carry on their dialogue."

[Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus]

I search the missing link
that interlinks the tattered ends of a chain undone
I watch the faceless shades passing by in lethargic state,
dreaming of something to occur.
I walk through canyons of concrete where the poet gets lost
and a walking eye weeps, where no visionary dares to reside.
And I sense Sisyphus climbing the hill with panting steps
for this sad time weighs his run.

In every waking hour
In any kind of golden light
In every moment of conception
In every hour you try to feel

always lies a sense of change

I feel the sense of change as Sisyphus clutches at life
but the lifeless shades of monotony obscure his brightest day
Is all that's left a plain choice, to last or to fall
on the edge of collective drab?

Must we find fortune in constant revolt?

In every waking hour
In any kind of golden light
In every moment of conception
In every hour you try to awake

Seemingly endless hours...

Just another door that hides stagnant life,
just another wall that entombs creative drive...

Seemingly endless hours
Riding on a search of lucidity
Seemingly endless hours
Hoping to escape obscurity

Behind closed eyes an elevated plan takes shape (but notice)
Behind closed doors a new lies obscured

As clouds enshroud the city, delaying thought and sun,
words submit poetic eyes and pave the way for compromise.

Behind crafty lies, behind listless eyes
Behind distant skies a man sees colored ways

Writing prophets foil the plan and innovative deeds.
As idle hands fail to unlock the door dreams die silently.

Behind closed eyes
Behind closed doors... integrity lies obscured

Do you remember the giant's world
when infantile heroes restrained the dragon with millboard swords?

Now memories barely begin to clear up
As the weight of the day slows our courageous way.

And we're chasing the day

Walking the aisles we observe old fragments
of difficult realities and unbroken pasts.

And with knowing we stumble on familiar ways
Yet we see all of those places through a sober stare.

Still we're chasing the day

We did cling to longing hopes and expectations
Now the relics resound from shadows of reminiscence, it seems.

Tired and weary, dusk grips our hearts as we attempt
to renew the bond with ages gone by...

And we bury the day

[I. FRONTIERS]

Pounding rhythms announce a borderline to pass.
Arctic chill embraces me under African skies.
Now all is one, grand transition starts slowly,
Life leaks away...
There's a certain passage I must run through all alone.
Static yet kinetic this projection lasts and widens constantly
Feeling alone...
Closer to the boundaries inertia thrill's my sleep
Somehow I must enter in scenes beyond compare.
I know I will...

[II. PROJECTIONS]

Adrift at sea on my way to Avalon
Tangled in moments surreal beneath the bridge of sighs
Emptiness takes hold...
Inhibitions and stifled fears emerge from the abyss of childhood,
My soul starts moving 'til it flies.
I retrace the years back and I sense compulsions disintegrate,
Barricades once built tumble down, eventually.
Projections - pictures of somewhere I'd been
Colored reflections...

[III. THE GRAINS OF SAND]

Even though new horizons are reached questions remain,
Subconscious landscapes left behind.
There's the permanent hope that the sand in my hands
recites details of moments passed away.

And the grains of sand slip through my fingers
Like the vision that blurs with the light of dawn...

Driven by a motive, impatient and absurd.
Conceited eyes focused on the path of least resistance.
Ignoring prohibitions the enlightened ones learn to doom indecision.
Disbelief assails a patient heart as kings arise from plastic and disguise.

Can you define the drive, the cause, the longing?
Aspiration will breed frustration
when plans and aims are shattered
by hands grabbing for progress.

Strange ambition might lead to decadence
With hubris heading for success, grabbing for progress,
and kings arise from plastic and disguise.

How many prayers have been pattered out in vain,
How many deeds have provoked a renaissance of futile smiles,
And how many times have we been privileged spectators?

We'd rather be removed from this conspiracy
We'd rather close our eyes to the insanity

Lifting our hopes to withered plains.
Dragging our thirst through desert storms
Interlocked through limitless empires of camera eyes,
Observing distress with stoic composure

Is this the act of resignation?

Admist the ruins the actors parade,
Reciting phrases of 'Godot' and 'Lear'
Yet something's different, the play seems so real
How come we notice familiar eyes behind the masks?

Still we smile
While hope and death carry on their dialogue
Still we dance
The sarabande of nihilism

Admist the ruins the jesters parade
Reciting phrases of 'Godot' and 'Lear'
Yet something's different, the play seems so real
Cunning tears hide a Torquemada smile

We congregate and sit hand in hand
around the table of anachronism
And we form the alliance with gestures of habit,
Carrying on the same old way...

One more time you find yourself huddled in silence.
Nicotine mingles with a mimic's tear, tarnishing moments forlorn...
Remember the stages that you were compelled to wander
Where ideas were devised, where the phantom of fame
approached like a brief encounter.
Try to evoke the day...
But memories are cold comfort for the mourning result of a long-forgotten cause.

Passionless words defy the stage no more
There's no applause, just a drunkard asking for encore
A silent audience of dust and desperation
As you remember certain faces that once engaged these empty places.

With the fading light came desperate thoughts, as if
the ghost of an urge rode a blatant breeze.
And the wet ink on the paper blurred under your tears,
just like water's clearness in the rush of the spray...
Try to escape the day...
And after all you will find out that it's all the same
how many footprints you've left in the soil.

Empty eyes defy these empty halls
Empty faces examine empty walls
Empty words thrown in empty streams
Empty places are the end of empty dreams.

To be a whisper on the breeze, to be a stranger on violent seas,
To see the world through orphaned eyes could be a mission
Behind tangerine skies.
For there's no importance in a dream of posthume fame
And I don't want to be a fugitive repatriated, watching
these empty places...