Lama Sabactani
In your hands open flowers of blood are expanded on the line of life. Blood, hircismo and humors, are liquefied and fall within an invisible chalice recorded by the wind. A logo imprecise adorns the stormy North, from where you can see the fierce and expectant crowd. They laugh, do you still not convince of the useless sacrifice? Oh, poor! You have believed in that distant Flash see an indication of the presence of your God! Dreamer! You can not distinguish already to your mother, who vanishes among the spectators. The roar of the mass are satisfaction, not disappointment.
You can’t see your best friend which is only a gray silhouette making ashes. Perhaps has it lifted a hand to prevent your money? You raise your crowned testa and see how desgajan owls that pluck pieces of heaven with their claws and dropped them on the afternoon. Nothing will change. You have the wrong. You’ve followed the wrong path.
In exchange for your miracles returned you martyrdom, in exchange for your words, they return you cruel torments. Still without darte account? Today, no one will miss you when the sun goes down. Much less importance will have with the passage of time. Your name will be used for blasphemy and for the looting, for the assault and injustice. Almost no life in your body, in vain you try to reach the air, your tendons is distended like strings of a violin that is not yet invented, and pain is a living being who dominates you. Then, you no longer support, your heart turns into frost and throw a last sigh, on whose wings float desperate words: Eli, Eli, Lama Sabactani. Maybe call your God. Who you have been able to listen, believe you reminisce their power, they imagine that it will not take the miracle of the destroyed temple or the army of Angels with their wild looks and their weapons vacuum. They think that you evoke its glory but what you do is curse, imprecar against the wild breed that kill you.