Cloistered in a rotten dungeon
full of rats, excrement, rottenness.
Confined, isolated of the light, immobile,
with tied chains,
without treated mercy,
with iron a fire marked,
covered by their dress of wounds,
with inseparable worms on him self,
festering rivers of pus,
segregating floods of infection;
Vomiting his smell the inanimate innocent
screaming he questions "what I did make "
Disturbed, dismembered,
cruelly throttled,
bled, violet,
fragmented with hundred of instruments,
suffocated, knifed,
dug in their bowels;
In the rotten dungeon the divided parts
of the inanimate innocent it questions :
"what we did make".
