You are a victim of your own wind (I don't know  if I insist, I feel, I said this). 

You are a corner watcher in the woods of your hiding places. 

You are scorn, disgrace of your blue. 

We are 300 hours from your bubble, of your life in our mouths 

(I don't know if I pretend, I feel, I think this). 

Inside of boxes, we are time too steeped in the sorrow of our penance.

We are out there (pimps, we spit, pimps, we grunt) the dust of our memory.

You are our witness, eternal companion of (our) body: 

How long does the body have to be able to speak

(the body that exists and that feels the reality of existence),

and if it talks, how much time would it has to spend before it can stay?

We don't know if we pretend or feel. 

You are our witness. 

We wander, we stay in the eternal penance of our corners. 

You are an observer of your centre, of your body that does not let you speak.

(I am a victim of my own invention).