lunes, 24 de febrero de 2014

On the table 3

On the table 3

The broken glasses
The worn hands
Staying on the carpet
With a clouded vision.

The voices wanting to arise
Or the drown voices wishing to get out
Asphyxiating the other persons
During the dawn out of time.

A drum announcing death
With deep beats
Producing the walls spinning
Opening the bottomless ground.

For not fighting
For not enduring
Like a steel blade
With closed eyes in front of the air.

The end of a generation
The deviated rhythm
Searching for the murk
From which it does not come but goes for it.

With expressions of desperate persons
Examining the perceptions
Like a blind man who by guessing
Wants to reach the altar of an unknown temple.

The yielding of the flesh
The fatigue deployed
The mouth contained with the hand
The dream broken in a thousand pieces

Painting quiet colors
Which are painful for the one who spread
As they hurt the canvas
That defenseless receives the weight of the work.

So that the act can be a fact
That complies with its magnitude
And then it can be dismissed
If you can feel what is needed.[1]

[1] Romans 3:28