Uncollected poems I

I

why I remain a prisoner of a judgment which I'm free?

II

One day you will have the guts
to kill your own gods.

III

Past is a prision,
future is the freedom that never comes
and the present is the only lie
that we believe blindly.

IV

Human: liar by nature.

V

Freedom is recognizing your own jails.

VI

We are slaves, prisoners, subjects
of this era.

Someone a century ago have thought the same
and someone in a century will think the same.

Time, time, time leave us alone.