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Poem

The earth wept for no reason 
under a soft articulate noise 
of auctioned lives, 
a beautiful dream, slowly dying.

Rottenness seeks in the soul
righteous prey,
grown from pure moments
in which the whiteness of thought
nurtures the hope of cleanliness
away from the smell own rot,
inherited from primary birth. 
I feel the path in the whites of my eyes 
through the chain of peoplecrucified 
only for the future millennia. 
We collect the rusty nails with tears 
let's stick them on the sky. 
Through the ancestral valleys 
the blood of the crusaders flows, 
furrowing the carapace of faith 
to destruction. 
One earth, 
one history, 
hangs like a ripe fruit 
in the grown tree 
from the heart of the universe 
ready to taste the putrefaction. 
On another branch
a flower opens 
in the prehistory of another fruit.

The earth wept for no reason 
under a soft articulate noise 
of auctioned lives, 
a beautiful dream, slowly dying

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