allan macli borges Biography

Never the dreams become true
As we await for miracles from above
Where nothing's living to give us hope
Never the dreams become true
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The earth changes every minute beneath my feet
From the deep arise mountains that I can’t reach
I feel the swallowing whistle of the hurricane
As the ground opens below tearing down my blame
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Tears
She cries a silent moan into the night
For the deserved resting seems never come
Opened eyes to see… just same sight
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I remember the day when I saw her
In that t-shirt I liked she was wearing
She was too pretty for me – I thought
From the window I’m just staring
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From the clouds she came into a smoke
Reminiscence of the gold age
When the gods fallen on their sleepiness
Having no man to starts their race
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