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lunes, 16 de septiembre de 2013

The mistake




The mistake 

It is not moss
Just hundreds of eyeballs
Uprooted and placed on the stairs
Receiving blunt steps of climbers
On the outdoor steps.

All is totally destroyed
For the great enjoyment of just one person
Clouding what she has of soul
Between signs jeering the way out
In the unshakable weight of a mountain of remorse.

Late, and for the accumulation of needs
Desires become images
Where it seems someone is soundlessly calling
Without a movement, where a shadow seemed deployed
And it is nothing more than the mind exposing its insane fragility.

The new day deprived of all protection
May not be one sheltering worms in its development
Where the hands wanting to avoid the hails go
While laughter reaches to scratch the ears
Producing pain in the teeth of someone who silently menstruates.

Little by little the formation is made up
Converging as appointed from one point to another
Starvation is serious but expertise is greater
Arrangement rules in precise rhythm
Where nobody fails because everybody is one.

Keep calm; it is a style in peacefulness
Like in barber with homicidal hands
In the counterpoint where purity does not come for being called
Where judgment is for those who have no conscience
And from those who lost theirs for lying to themselves without believing.

Many years later drowned people screams persists
As the droning of planes are sensed before arrival
As risk of gunpowder before it was invented
Real visions, broken bones and sacrificed hearts in holocausts
The crude flesh cycling its said belief, terribly mistaken.