That a few imagine and less remember
Prisoners in the intentions of who is talking
In twilight time of a solar system.
Ripping the hands but not the eyes
With the aimed blows directed deeply
Where the one who stayed before is asked to wait
As if still exists a moment in the career.
In the asphyxia, in the wood of strawberries
In the real flavor that doesn’t include reward
Rising in panic their pearly trenches
Those dwelled by the voices of all languages.
Going to the grave in the afternoon
Solving difficult riddles
And barely controlling the pulse
Guiding the tides of the lost.
The dirty hymn of vanity
Barely observed on a banner
The bones like the soul, becoming soften
For the cup that like its owner won’t resist the scent
Dry in the desert
Impeding thawing with the eyes
Nature that challenges for knowing its own character
Knowing that moves the desire of annihilation.
In the hours of fortune in which awaits
In the steps that certainly precede them
To poison the skin who passes through them
And making terrible the sight of what it’s going to be seen.
Lost is the word but not the breath
Feeling in the mouth all the nearness
Spots in the chest deprived of fear
That desires a slow and infinite confrontation.
The sound hidden in thunder
Over mutilated animals
For a table full of strangers
They are sitting to share their ignorance.