The table

Twelve crucifixes under the stones
That a few imagine and less remember
As prisoners of the intentions of prays
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
Just as if a career were still in progress.

In the luscious fields of strawberries
With the real flavor that does not include reward
The pearly trenches rise in panic
Listening voices of all languages.

Going to the grave in the afternoon
Solving difficult riddles
And barely controlling the pulse
While guiding tides of lost people.

The dirty hymn of vanity
Barely observed on a banner
The bones like the soul are decomposing
As a drinker who surrenders to the cap scent.

Dryness in the desert
Impeding thawing with his eyes
Challenging nature for understanding it
Knowing that a desire for annihilation moves him.

During hours of happiness, those who are waiting
In the steps that certainly precede them
To poison the person who passes through them
And to spoil the future to his sight.

Lost is the word but not the breath
Feeling the nearness in his mouth
And places in his chest deprived of fear
Expecting a slow and infinite confrontation.

The sound hidden in thunder
Over mutilated animals
For a table full of strangers
Sitting to share their ignorance.