The race of life

To my brother, from another mother, I write from here, beyond the horizon... That life is strange for everyone. A ball of soft thread, without purpose. We are what we all are. Some machines that walk without wheels, Sparking flames that burn each one, One single road and no other way. The asphalt and the hard gravel of life Are tearing flesh from our whole body. And with each sunrise and sunset We become smaller, and it starts to hurt. We greet each other, crying at the crosses, And bid each other farewell at stops. Then, we leave our places to other generations, For in the race of life, in the end, we die.