The madmen and the book that died virgin

The book left on the seat of a crowded tram,
A book that occupies, but doesn't fulfill
And no one wanted to open it with fear of isolated words,
Afraid of losing the prejudices and no longer know the way back home.

The book is looked askance, as the woman who seduces in silence,
It's only touched by the thirst of a leading role of someone who soon drops it
Or by the child, still beardless in the paths of the extremism socially accepted,
Who screams an innocuous title, but throbbing in all minds.

Like any book where the poet Nizar Qabbani only see caches of bombs
And from where Fernando Pessoa ran away looking for his freedom,
The book ends in the tram ground, trampled by the crowd
And died being a loser against so many others that survive warm in shelves.

This is how madmen are,
They run away from the libraries and go out to the street to read hidden screams in faces,
They are remembered that they are crazy as soon as they start a conversation with a stranger,
They jump from an overcrowded boat when no one see the land.

Unstable, dangerous, they don't care about preparing themselves to the winter
They know they will die during the summer, with the embrace of the real or imagined heat
And they seek incessantly the stop of the time,
The lost breath that any illusion of safety can't buy.

They put diplomacy in the same place where Álvaro de Campos left education
They often repent, cry and even take refuge in some axiom
But soon they chase the bird which whispered "joy" during their sleep
Forgetting that the world is made of prisons in the shape of birds.

This is how madmen are, those who do not pray the story.

Note: I wrote this text when I quit my job in 2012.