I miss the bumps that heal up with mummy’s kiss.

I wish to konw when do the life stoped being a game, and when does make a hole in the ball the hand of the clock that counts the seconds.I wish to know why do they teach maths in the school to live in a world that two and two never is four.

The hands of my clock never counts seconds, minutes nor hours.

The hands of my clock counts histories, those ones that I live every day;

Your look…               …looking for mine…

Your look…               …looking to the girl next to me; because two and two never is four.

A car turned in the road of Legutio…            …just a wrist sprain…

A car turned in the road of Legutio…             …two competitions more lost; again, two plus two…

I miss the bumps that heal up with the daddy’s kiss.