Written by: George Zamalea

From “The Last Land”

The years were fresh but the sea
Was filled with stomach cramps, and burning tips
	Against a psychic belly
The vibration of fishes
As they were jumping angrily over the sun's rim.

	A toxic light as a procession
With its own measure fled over all these scattering shadows
	And its demented ray makes love 
To the son of Evil who was striking suddenly 
As a wedding ass in a golden plate!

In a small fountain, concentrating
	By diluted water, I drink;
I try to be alive; that's the only reason 
	I was loving this unknown monster because I myself not human, 
Not a soul sailing but a rare thyroid that created those
Structures threatening to evade the failing 
	Moment; as they say, the Hope made the killers
Smiling, when the verdict was just a fancy holder.

	And when the monitors were still invisible 
	A voice was thrilling off, "Oh, I’ll born tomorrow and I can erase 
	Myself today and see myself in front of you
	Twenty thousand years for now," he said
As an antibiotic; behind it all things still pursing each other,
	By the still unknown forcer, and with intensity
All smashed around me.