Modern Romanticism

With the faces of Hell,
we flooded whole plains
with our singing feelings,
diseasing our crops
with unleashed despair,
unloading our arms
broken beyond repair.

We held on to know
the time we had left,
until we needed to go,
until we would let go
of what will be falling
with the flakes of snow.

We sunk our eyesight
into the other’s gaze,
hoping that our history
wouldn’t be our ruin.

It was enough to find
that footsteps were there
to be following us
on that beaten trail.

Now we let pages record
how much we suffered
to keep our love high,
under countless stars.

Now we scorn the parts
that drove us into the wind,
to bleed in all directions,
to burn while being cold.