They had been assassinated, between them Gandhi, Luther King, Malcom X and I buzzed Mount of homesickness of the people who never I knew Of the poets who had died before it gave to be born Of the people who I almost knew I do not have homesicknesses, because I did not know them Mount of homesickness of the people who never vi Of the people who vi, because they had not revealed of truth, few me had left homesicknesses. To the times taste to pass the time? If some somebody that does not have nothing in the life to relembrar to disturb not to come me with its urgencies of now, is good that if it says? But at last, misfortunes to the part, I taste to pass the hours relembrando the steps, exaggerations, ways, embezzlements and starts and descomeos of my life Of the dreamed life, but never carried through due to time, courage, wanting of truth. Many times I lose myself in the labyrinths of these distances, of these impossibilities of my loves that had not given certain (that I only know why they had not given certain). I come back to the past, foot before foot? because the past is arisco and if it scares there with easiness – and, watching of the opening of the time, I am arranging and rearrumando some things, wanting to make to give certain in the imagination, what it failed in the reason Living of new what a time was never lived at least. Simulating the life, to only see as it could have been. Ah, What she would be of me without the memories of the loves that had never happened? The souvenirs of the things that I did not live and the loves that never I had are infinitely bigger and deliciously gostosas of if relembrar that the memories of the things that I had, and the women who I had without nor one of had me to them Of fancy in fancy, I loved many women Only these women who never I had of truth – but that I loved desesperadamente -, true homesicknesses had left in me to repeat, because these had been the only women who had possessed me of truth the soul, the body and the spirit.