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I am constantly mist,
and in the ineroxable cycle
I walk between shadows of disappoiment, where rebelliousness is hardly an acquired survival necessary game, where poetry is the glory imposed on the disinherited ones, who constantly stain with their own blood the alternatives
paths of martyrization

Where Jesus himself rise over all in a vanity paroxism

And the small light which could enlighten the earth as a whole is hardly perceptible,
and it materializes in a blade
which delicately cuts your veins, or wildly annhilates mankind, or iluminates utopia with new whins of uncertainty...there where we will have to rise again.

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