Chasing our shadows: Young blood and voices of friends...

We were soldiers of our reasons and unrecognizable to bruises , we used to have demons inside when we wasted sins on the streets. Our legs felt like stone, our bones struggled to carry us back home. But that moments are vanished... No one here anymore to greet us, a bunch of boys with a mutual identity and basic memories. And we don't want to lay down on a bed of roses 'cause we could suffer severe wounds from their thorns, throughout our struggles... Now we slip on a melted path, praying the guilt to be a child no more. Torches scent the end and fall in the horizon, whispering a sigh, where the blind spots are filled by our glory. There's joy not far from here ! The 'nest' is like a gap between flames or rays. That's all Pogoanele is about: it's unveiling our leadership, our names hanging above the dusty cloud, which we left behind after a football session. Forgiveness not one of our escaping plans, 'cause crosses forget what we meant by no match between oblivion and us. We are the gods to be blamed, we shut the faith down to a whisper; we remember sequences, but not like they occurred. We forgot what we were and we might become what we are... Then, we reach a status when we recognize only short-terms feelings. I hope i'll live those instants in Pogoanele. Thus, i will know that i was happy during my whole life...