On tiptoes, with the passing of the old wayfarer,
Whose tongue is damned, choking in the foul salty blood,
To run after the cart which is consumed on coarse
Bifurcated tongues, between squares full of
Animals and dark alleys (without a destination);
Dressed in glass
To shine to a weak sun
Of battered iron, you will soon become
Naked
And your flesh will be soaked with the most elegant red,
That one which is more deep.
The man who sells humans will tighten ropes around your feet
Let's confess your sin.
Sparkling, speechless and naïve plastic diamonds,
Behind long sweaty fingers.
You will cut your arms and legs not to falter,
You will sew your bodies together with (infected) needles,
Looked at by astute watchers,
Naked men, coming from foreign villages.
You will be willing to give up your soul
To be able to still
Hear
The tinkling of a coin,
You will be ready to confess repulsive sins,
To receive the acquittal of the old wayfarer.
But the road to forgiveness goes
Through trails too steep for those that
Do not have any dignity left.
Legs of worthless people will putrefy with their rotten souls.
Dream of the present, oh passengers,
Unbounded pride.
Puppets with a polished smile
And interiors made of straw,
The old dry bones will painfully break
And an out-of-tune choir will sing.
