A departing body whose blood the prophets weep. Nothing but to place my heart, like a meteorite pierced with rust, under the fierce wheels to strike at the bones, and let the thunderbolt of the night be a pillow for the arrogant.
I am standing in delirium, discovering now that I have watched the life of weaving an abyss for my steps, sleep by sleep, claiming that I am the strong, resistant, capable of confrontations. I am the weakest creature without certainty or argument. I am like a mountain hissing in the presence of clouds. A being standing like a scandal in the priest's heart. Lust opens the end, and takes my hand with the tenderness of crime and the laziness of the snake, so that I fall like a bride who loses her chastity in front of the crowds in the square, and people have blood proof.
There is someone who goes leaf by leaf. I have enough hatred for a pack of wolves of lust, and you may unleash the astonishment of the attack in my delay, without a guilty conscience, and you are free to arms to take their share of what remains.
I am the one who emerges from people's patience, stained by sin, the messenger of speech. There is only a fitting ending left. I am the only one standing in a pale brink, I have gone to it since the wilt of a frayed thread, delusional that it is the first spinning in the veil of solitude, I put my soul on the blow. It was said that galaxies would remember my eyelashes. You have the joy of killing, and you put the blades of your knives in my heart, you flee the flesh and reach the bone, so the silver of my soul floats in your faces for the rudeness of the fatwa.
I am the wolf going into the night of refuge, the deceiver of experience, the fan of fires, the igniter of discord, the undertaker of wildfire, the unruly of blood, the sullen heart, the cheeks of devils. A hyena sucks in the blood of the dead with lustfully quivering labia, and its fangs poke over the bones of a corpse, as a prophet takes off his frayed shirt. It is worthy of all the lethality that you are capable of, and let your freedoms be the banner of revenge.
I am the target of snipers, my soul is in your hands. Excuse me, it is not suitable for you. You are the excuses of the dead, your sins are more than the innocence of a child. It is not for you to exaggerate with a trembling hand while it is in the handle of the shovel slashed with ancient rust, like wine that overflowed me, and it could not bear patience in the bleeding that slays the cells. The night is about to become a sympathetic shroud for the stuttering in front of love, rejoicing in the wailing of the dying, trembling with the fear of the blade from many sides.
It's time to travel
It's time to travel, and there's no turning back. There was no air left in space for the corpse to inhale.
May you be the bridesmaids of the night's hodgepodge. May you be of great strength, so that mourning may come from the farthest corners. And let the mourners be among you who joyfully push a corpse that goes away.
I put my feet in the hanging bracket with the lust of the suicide. Time ate from me, the flower, the branch, the trunk and the roots. Guarded by heartbreak and fear, I was afraid of every side and everything, and I missed fear of myself, of an intrigue that spoils the step and the way. Stained by sins and mistakes, I do not seek pity, and you do not care about any hope, and there is no moment to flee from the glory of lamentations, the creaking of the coffin, and the power of the night. Let the diggers among you be firm, with shovels that reach deep from the ground.
And let there be tyrants among you who are well-equipped with the precision of a jeweler and the insight of a scholar, so that the funeral appears rigorous and the end majestic, so that you have solid livers, so that the tremor of hesitation does not disturb your hearts as you put the corpse in the washing, the shroud, the coffin and the grave. It is not befitting for me to see you trembling at fate, pitying a submissive wolf saved by killing.
I am standing in delirium, discovering now that I have watched the life of weaving an abyss for my steps, sleep by sleep, claiming that I am the strong, resistant, capable of confrontations. I am the weakest creature without certainty or argument. I am like a mountain hissing in the presence of clouds. A being standing like a scandal in the priest's heart. Lust opens the end, and takes my hand with the tenderness of crime and the laziness of the snake, so that I fall like a bride who loses her chastity in front of the crowds in the square, and people have blood proof.
There is someone who goes leaf by leaf. I have enough hatred for a pack of wolves of lust, and you may unleash the astonishment of the attack in my delay, without a guilty conscience, and you are free to arms to take their share of what remains.
I am the one who emerges from people's patience, stained by sin, the messenger of speech. There is only a fitting ending left. I am the only one standing in a pale brink, I have gone to it since the wilt of a frayed thread, delusional that it is the first spinning in the veil of solitude, I put my soul on the blow. It was said that galaxies would remember my eyelashes. You have the joy of killing, and you put the blades of your knives in my heart, you flee the flesh and reach the bone, so the silver of my soul floats in your faces for the rudeness of the fatwa.
I am the wolf going into the night of refuge, the deceiver of experience, the fan of fires, the igniter of discord, the undertaker of wildfire, the unruly of blood, the sullen heart, the cheeks of devils. A hyena sucks in the blood of the dead with lustfully quivering labia, and its fangs poke over the bones of a corpse, as a prophet takes off his frayed shirt. It is worthy of all the lethality that you are capable of, and let your freedoms be the banner of revenge.
I am the target of snipers, my soul is in your hands. Excuse me, it is not suitable for you. You are the excuses of the dead, your sins are more than the innocence of a child. It is not for you to exaggerate with a trembling hand while it is in the handle of the shovel slashed with ancient rust, like wine that overflowed me, and it could not bear patience in the bleeding that slays the cells. The night is about to become a sympathetic shroud for the stuttering in front of love, rejoicing in the wailing of the dying, trembling with the fear of the blade from many sides.
It's time to travel
It's time to travel, and there's no turning back. There was no air left in space for the corpse to inhale.
May you be the bridesmaids of the night's hodgepodge. May you be of great strength, so that mourning may come from the farthest corners. And let the mourners be among you who joyfully push a corpse that goes away.
I put my feet in the hanging bracket with the lust of the suicide. Time ate from me, the flower, the branch, the trunk and the roots. Guarded by heartbreak and fear, I was afraid of every side and everything, and I missed fear of myself, of an intrigue that spoils the step and the way. Stained by sins and mistakes, I do not seek pity, and you do not care about any hope, and there is no moment to flee from the glory of lamentations, the creaking of the coffin, and the power of the night. Let the diggers among you be firm, with shovels that reach deep from the ground.
And let there be tyrants among you who are well-equipped with the precision of a jeweler and the insight of a scholar, so that the funeral appears rigorous and the end majestic, so that you have solid livers, so that the tremor of hesitation does not disturb your hearts as you put the corpse in the washing, the shroud, the coffin and the grave. It is not befitting for me to see you trembling at fate, pitying a submissive wolf saved by killing.